THE  WISHING  MOON 


"  'Oh,  Judith,  won't  you  speak  to  me? 


THE 
WISHING  MOON 


BY 

LOUISE  DUTTON 

AUTHOR  OP 
"THE  GODDESS  GIRL" 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

EVERETT  SHINN 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
LOUISE  BUTTON 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


COPYRIGHT,  I9l6,  THE  METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

" '  Oh,  Judith,  won't  you  speak  to  me  ? ' '      Frontispiece 
(See  page  239) 

FACING  PAGE 

*'*!  know  what  this  means,'  she  asserted"  .      .      128 

"' Shut  your  eyes'" 166 

" '  Judith,  you  don't  hate  me?     Say  it— say  it ' "     180 


THE  WISHING  MOON 


The  Wishing  Moon 

CHAPTER  ONE 

A  LITTLE  girl  sat  on  the  worn  front  door- 
steps of  the  Randall  house.  She  sat  very 
still  and  straight,  with  her  short,  white 
skirts  fluffed  daintily  out  on  both  sides,  her  hands 
tightly  clasped  over  her  thin  knees,  and  her  long, 
silk-stockinged  legs  cuddled  tight  together.  She 
was  bare-headed,  and  her  short,  soft  hair  showed 
silvery  blonde  in  the  fading  light.  Her  hair  was 
bobbed.  For  one  miserable  month  it  had  been 
the  only  bobbed  head  in  Green  River.  Her  big, 
gray-green  eyes  had  a  fugitive,  dancing  light  in 
them.  The  little  girl  had  beautiful  eyes. 

The  little  girl  was  Miss  Judith  Devereux  Ran- 
dall. She  was  eleven  years  old,  and  she  felt 
happier  to-night  than  she  remembered  feeling 
in  all  the  eleven  years  of  her  life. 

The  Randalls'  lawn  was  hedged  with  a  fringe  of 
lilac  and  syringa  bushes,  with  one  great,  spreading 
horse-chestnut  tree  at  the  corner.  The  house  did 
not  stand  far  back  from  the  street.  The  little 

3 


4  The  Wishing  Moon 

girl  could  see  a  generous  section  of  Main  Street 
sloping  past,  dark  already  under  shadowing  trees. 
The  street  was  empty.  It  was  half-past  six,  and 
supper-time  in  Green  River,  but  the  Randalls  did 
not  have  supper,  they  dined  at  night,  like  the 
Everards.  To-night  mother  and  father  were 
dining  with  the  Everards,  and  the  little  girl  had 
plans  of  her  own. 

Father  was  dressed,  and  waiting,  shut  in  the 
library.  Mother  was  dressing  in  her  big  corner 
room  upstairs,  with  all  the  electric  lights  lighted. 
The  little  girl  could  see  them,  if  she  turned  her 
head,  but  mother  was  very  far  away,  in  spite  of 
that,  for  her  door  was  locked,  and  you  could  not 
go  in.  You  could  not  watch  her  brush  her  long, 
wonderful  hair,  or  help  her  into  her  evening  gown. 
Mother's  evening  gown  was  black  this  summer, 
with  shiny  spangles — a  fairy  gown.  Mother  had 
to  be  alone  while  she  dressed,  because  she  was  go- 
ing to  the  Everards'. 

There  were  two  Everards,  the  Colonel,  who  was 
old  because  his  hair  was  white,  and  his  wife,  who 
wore  even  more  beautiful  clothes  than  mother. 
She  had  heard  her  father  say  that  the  Colonel  had 
made  the  town,  and  she  had  heard  Norah,  the 
cook,  say  that  he  owned  the  town.  She  had  an 
idea  that  these  two  things  were  not  quite  the  same, 
though  they  sounded  alike,  for  father  was  fond  of 


The  Wishing  Moon  5 

the  Colonel,  and  Norah  was  not.  At  any  rate,  he 
was  president  of  the  bank — father  and  Norah 
agreed  about  that — and  he  lived  in  a  house  at  the 
edge  of  the  town,  in  what  used  to  be  a  part  of 
Larribees'  woods.  Father  used  to  go  Mayflower- 
ing  there,  but  now  nobody  could. 

The  house  was  ugly,  with  things  sticking  out  all 
over  it,  towers  and  balconies  and  cupolas,  and  it 
was  the  little  girl's  twin.  She  was  born  the  year 
the  Everards  settled  in  Green  River. 

"And  you're  marked  with  it,"  Norah  said,  in 
one  of  their  serious  talks,  when  Mollie,  the  second 
girl,  was  out,  and  the  two  had  the  kitchen  to  them- 
selves. Norah  was  peeling  apples  for  a  pie,  and 
allowing  her  unlimited  ginger-snaps,  straight  from 
the  jar.  "  Marked  with  it,  Miss  Judy." 

"What?" 

"That  house,  and  what  goes  on  in  it." 

"What  does  go  on?" 

"You'll  know  soon  enough." 

"I'm  not  marked  with  it.  I've  got  a  birth- 
mark, but  it's  a  strawberry,  on  my  left  side,  like 
the  princesses  have  in  the  fairy  tales." 

"You  are  a  kind  of  a  princess,  Miss  Judy." 

"Is  that  a  bad  thing  to  be,  Nana?  " 

"It's  a  lonesome  thing." 

"My  strawberry's  fading.  Mother  says  it  will 
go  away." 


6  The  Wishing  Moon 

"It  won't  go  away.  What  we're  born  to  be,  we 

will  be,  Miss  Judy .  Bless  your  heart,  you're 

crying,  with  the  big  eyes  of  you.  What  for,  dear?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  princess. 
I  don't  want  to  be  lonesome.  I  hate  the  Ever- 
ards." 

"Well,  there's  many  to  say  that  now,  and 
there'll  be  more  to  say  it  soon."  Norah  muttered 
this  darkly,  into  her  yellow  bowl  of  apples,  but 
Judith  heard:  "Here,  eat  this  apple,  child.  You 
musn't  hate  anybody." 

" I  do.     I  hate  the  Everards." 

Queer  things  came  into  your  head  to  say  when 
you  were  talking  with  Norah,  who  had  an  aunt 
with  the  second  sight,  and  told  beautiful  fairy 
tales  herself,  and  even  believed  in  fairies;  Judith 
did  not.  The  Everards  gave  Judith  and  no  other 
little  girl  in  town  presents  at  Christmas,  and  in- 
vited Judith  and  no  other  little  girl  to  lunch. 
They  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  her  trouble,  her 
serious  trouble,  which  she  would  not  discuss  even 
with  Norah.  But  she  did  not  really  hate  the  Ever- 
ards— certainly  not  to-night.  She  was  too  happy. 

Judith  was  going  out  to  hang  May-baskets. 

So  was  every  other  little  girl  in  town  who  wanted 
to,  and  it  was  a  wonderful  thing  to  be  doing  to- 
night. It  was  really  May  night,  by  the  weather 
as  well  as  the  calendar — the  kind  of  night  that 


The  Wishing  Moon  7 

Norah's  fairies  meant  should  come  on  the  first  of 
May:  warm,  with  a  tiny  chill  creeping  into  the 
air  as  the  dark  came,  a  pleasant,  shivery  chill,  as 
if  there  might  really  be  fairies  or  ghosts  about. 
It  was  still  and  clear.  One  star,  that  had  just 
come  up  above  the  horse-chestnut  tree,  looked  very 
small  and  bright  and  close,  as  if  it  had  climbed  up 
into  the  sky  out  of  the  dark,  clustering  leaves  of  the 
tree. 

This  was  the  star  that  Judith  usually  wished  on, 
but  she  could  wish  on  the  moon  to-night;  Norah 
had  told  her  so;  wish  once  instead  of  three  nights 
running,  and  get  her  wish  whether  she  thought  of 
the  red  fox's  tail  or  not.  The  new  moon  of  May 
was  a  wishing  moon. 

A  wishing  moon!  The  small  white  figure  on  the 
steps  cuddled  itself  into  a  smaller  heap.  Judith 
sighed  happily  and  closed  her  eyes.  She  was 
going  with  the  others.  She  had  her  wish  already. 

It  was  Judith's  great  trouble  that  she  was  not 
like  other  little  girls.  Until  she  was  six  Judith 
had  a  vague  idea  that  she  was  the  only  child  in 
the  world.  Then  she  tried  to  make  friends  with 
two  small,  dirty  girls  over  the  back  fence,  and 
found  out  that  there  were  other  children,  but  she 
must  not  play  with  them.  One  day  Norah  found 
her  crying  in  the  nursery  because  she  could  not 
think  what  to  play,  and  soon  after  Willard  Nash, 


8  The  Wishing  Moon 

the  fat  little  boy  next  door,  came  to  dinner  and 
into  her  life,  and  after  that,  Eddie  and  Natalie 
Ward,  from  the  white  house  up  the  street,  and 
Lorena  Drew,  from  over  the  river.  Still  other 
children  came  to  her  parties,  so  many  that  she 
could  not  remember  their  names.  Then  Judith's 
trouble  began.  She  was  not  like  them. 

She  did  not  look  like  them;  her  clothes  were  not 
made  by  a  seamstress,  but  came  from  city  shops, 
and  had  shorter  skirts,  and  stuck  out  in  different 
places.  She  could  not  do  what  they  did;  Mollie 
called  for  her  at  nine  at  evening  parties,  and  she 
usually  had  to  go  to  bed  half  an  hour  after  dinner, 
before  it  was  dark.  She  had  to  do  things  that  they 
did  not  do:  make  grown-up  calls  with  her  mother 
and  wear  gloves,  and  take  lessons  in  fancy  dancing 
instead  of  going  to  dancing  school. 

But  she  had  gone  to  school  now  for  almost  a 
year,  a  private  school  in  the  big  billiard-room  at 
the  Larribees',  but  a  real  school,  with  other  chil- 
dren in  it.  They  did  not  make  fun  of  her  clothes, 
or  the  way  she  pronounced  her  words,  very  often 
now.  She  belonged  to  a  secret  society  with  Rena 
and  Natalie.  She  had  spent  one  night  with 
Natalie,  though  she  had  to  come  home  before 
breakfast.  The  other  children  did  not  know  she 
was  different,  but  Judith  knew. 

Unexpected  things  might  be  required  of  her  at 


The  Wishing  Moon  9 

a  moment's  notice:  to  be  excused  from  school 
and  pass  cakes  at  a  tea  at  the  Everards';  to  leave 
a  picnic  before  the  potatoes  were  roasted,  because 
Mollie  had  appeared,  inexorable;  unaccountable 
things,  but  she  was  to  be  safe  to-night.  May 
night  was  not  such  a  wonderful  night  for  any  little 
girl  as  it  was  for  Judith. 

The  lights  were  on  in  Nashs'  parlour,  and  not 
turned  off  in  the  dining-room,  which  meant 
that  the  rest  of  the  family  were  not  through  sup- 
per, but  Willard  was.  Presently  she  heard  three 
loud,  unmelodious  whistles,  his  private  signal,  and 
a  stocky  figure  pushed  itself  through  a  gap  in  the 
hedge  which  looked,  and  was,  too  small  for  it,  and 
Judith  rubbed  her  eyes  and  sat  up — it  crossed  the 
lawn  to  her. 

"  Good  morning,  Merry  Sunshine,"  said  Willard, 
ironically. 

"I  wasn't  asleep." 

"You  were." 

"I  heard  you  coming." 

"You  did  not." 

"I  did  so." 

These  formalities  over,  she  made  room  for  him 
eagerly  on  the  steps.  Willard  looked  fatter  to 
Judith  after  a  meal,  probably  because  she  knew 
how  much  he  ate.  His  clean  collar  looked  much 
too  clean  and  white  in  the  dark,  and  he  was  evi- 


10  The  Wishing  Moon 

dently  in  a  teasing  mood,  but  such  as  he  was,  he 
was  her  best  friend,  and  she  needed  him. 

"  Willard,  guess  what  I'm  going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know,  kid."  Willard's  tone  implied 
unmistakably  that  he  did  not  want  to  know. 

"To-night!" 

Judith's  voice  thrilled.  Willard  stared  at  her. 
Her  eyes  looked  wider  than  usual,  and  very  bright. 
She  was  smiling  a  strange  little  smile,  and  a  rare 
dimple,  which  he  really  believed  she  had  made  with 
a  slate  pencil,  showed  in  her  cheek.  The  light  in 
her  face  was  something  new  to  him,  something  he 
did  not  understand,  and  therefore  being  of  mascu- 
line mind,  wished  to  remove. 

"You're  going  to  miss  it  to-night  for  one  thing, 
kid,"  he  stated  deliberately. 

"Oh,  am  I?"     Judith  dimpled  and  glowed. 

"We're  going  to  stay  out  until  ten.  Vivie's 
not  going."  Willard's  big  sister  had  chaperoned 
the  expedition  the  year  before.  Now  it  was  to  go 
out  unrestrained  into  the  night. 

"That's  lovely." 

Willard  searched  his  brain  for  more  overwhelm- 
ing details. 

"We've  got  a  dark  lantern." 

"That's  nice." 

"I  got  it.  It's  father's.  He  won't  miss  it. 
It's  hidden  in  the  Drews'  barn.  We're  going  to 


The  Wishing  Moon  11 

meet  at  the  Drews,  to  fool  them.  They'll  be 
watching  the  Wards'." 

"They  will?" 

"Sure." 

"The— paddies?" 

"Sure." 

Judith  drew  an  awed,  ecstatic  breath.  He  was 
touching  now  on  the  chief  peril  and  charm  of  the 
expedition.  Hanging  May-baskets,  conferring  an 
elaborately-made  gift  upon  a  formal  acquaintance, 
was  not  the  object  of  it — nothing  so  philanthropic; 
it  was  the  escape  after  you  had  hung  them.  You 
went  out  for  adventure,  to  ring  the  bell  and  get 
away,  to  brave  the  dangers  of  the  night  in  small, 
intimate  companies.  And  the  chief  danger,  which 
you  fled  from  through  the  dark,  was  the  paddies. 

She  did  not  know  much  about  them.  She 
would  not  show  her  ignorance  by  asking  questions. 
But  there  were  little  boys  with  whom  a  state  of 
war  existed.  They  chased  you,  even  fought  with 
you,  made  a  systematic  attempt  to  steal  your 
May-baskets.  They  were  mixed  up  in  her  mind 
with  gnomes  and  pirates.  She  was  deliciously 
afraid  of  them.  She  hardly  thought  they  had 
human  faces.  She  understood  that  they  were 
most  of  them  Irish,  and  that  it  was  somehow  a 
disgrace  for  them  to  be  Irish,  though  her  own 
Norah  was  Irish  and  proud  of  it. 


12  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Sure!"  said  Willard.  "Irish  boys.  Paddies 
from  Paddy  Lane.  Ed  got  a  black  eye  last  year. 
We'll  get  back  at  them.  It  will  be  some  evening." 
Judith  did  not  look  jealous  or  wistful  yet.  "The 
whole  crowd's  going." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  thrilled  Judith.  "Oh,  Wil- 
lard  " 

"Oh,  Willard,"  he  mimicked.  Judith  pro- 
nounced all  the  letters  hi  his  name,  which  was  not 
the  popular  method.  "Oh,  Willard,  what  do  you 
think  I  heard  Viv  say  to  the  Gaynor  girl  about 
you?" 

"Don't  know.  Willard,  won't  the  paddies  see 
the  dark  lantern?" 

"Viv  said  you  were  as  pretty  as  a  doll,  but  just 
as  stiff  and  stuck-up,"  pronounced  Willard  sternly. 
"And  your  father's  only  the  cashier  of  the  bank, 
and  just  because  the  Everards  have  taken  your 
mother  up  is  no  reason  for  her  to  put  on  airs  and 
get  a  second  girl  and  get  into  debt " 

He  broke  off,  discouraged.  Judith  did  not 
appear  to  hear  him.  After  the  masculine  habit, 
as  he  could  not  control  the  situation,  he  rose  to 
leave. 

"Well,  so  long,  kid.  I've  got  to  go  to  the 
post-office." 

Even  the  mention  of  this  desirable  rendezvous, 
which  was  denied  to  her  because  Mollie  always 


The  Wishing  Moon  13 

brought  home  the  evening  mail  in  a  black  silk 
bag,  did  not  dim  the  dancing  light  in  Judith's 
eyes.  She  put  a  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"Willard  --  " 

"Well,  kid?" 

"Willard,  don't  you  wish  I  was  going  to-night?" 

"What  for,  to  fight  the  paddies,  or  carry  the 
dark  lantern?" 

"I  could  fight,"  said  Judith,  with  a  little  quiver 
in  her  voice,  as  if  she  could. 

"  Fight?  You  couldn't  even  run  away.  They'd" 
—  Willard  hissed  it  mysteriously  —  "they'd  get 
you." 

"No,  they  wouldn't,  because"  —  something  had 
happened  to  her  eyes,  so  that  they  did  not  look 
tantalizing  —  "you'd  take  care  of  me,  Willard," 
she  announced  surprisingly,  "wouldn't  you?" 

"Forget  it,"  murmured  Willard,  flattered. 

"Wouldn't  you?" 


"Willard!" 

"Yes." 

"Well  —  I  am.  Father  made  mother  let  me. 
I'm  going  with  you." 

The  words  she  had  been  trying  to  say  were  out 
at  last  in  a  hushed  voice,  because  her  heart  was 
beating  hard,  but  they  sounded  beautiful  to  her, 
Kke  a  kind  of  song.  Perhaps  Willard  heard  it, 


14  The  Wishing  Moon 

too.  He  really  was  her  best  friend,  and  lie  did  not 
look  so  fat,  after  all,  in  the  twilight.  She  waited 
breathlessly. 

"You  are?" 

Judith  nodded.     She  could  not  speak. 

"Well!"  Willard's  feelings  were  mixed,  his 
face  was  not  fashioned  to  express  a  conflict  of 
emotions,  and  words  failed  him,  too.  "You're 
a  queer  kid.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?  " 

"Aren't  you  glad,  Willard?" 

"You'll  get  sleepy." 

"Aren't  you  glad?" 

"Sure  I'm  glad.  But  you  can't  run,  and  you 
are  a  cry-baby." 

These  were  known  facts,  not  insults,  but  now 
Judith's  eyes  had  stopped  dancing. 

"Judy,  are  you  mad  with  me?" 

"No." 

"You're  the  queerest  kid."  Up  the  street,  he 
caught  sight  of  a  member  of  a  simpler  sex  than 
Judith's.  "There's  Ed  coming  out  of  the  gate. 
I've  got  to  see  him  about  something.  See  you 
later.  Don't  be  mad.  So  long!" 

The  house  was  astir  behind  Judith.  Father 
was  opening  and  shutting  doors,  and  hunting  for 
things.  Nbrah  was  helping  mother  into  her  wraps 
and  scolding.  Somebody  was  telephoning.  Moth- 
er's carriage  was  late. 


The  Wishing  Moon  15 

But  it  was  turning  into  the  yard  now,  a  big, 
black  hack  from  the  Inn,  with  a  white  horse. 
Judith  liked  white  horses  best.  The  front  door 
opened,  and  her  father,  very  tall  and  blond,  with 
his  shirt-front  showing  white,  and  her  mother, 
with  something  shiny  in  her  black  hair,  swept  out. 

"Look  who's  here,"  said  her  father,  and  picked 
her  up  with  his  hands  under  her  elbows.  "Go- 
ing to  paint  the  town  red  to-night,  son?  " 

"Red?"  breathed  Judith.  How  strong  father 
was,  and  how  beautiful  mother  was.  She  smelled 
of  the  perfume  in  the  smallest  bottle  on  the  toilet- 
table.  How  kind  they  both  were.  "Red?" 

"Harry,  you  see  she  doesn't  care  a  thing  about 
going.  She'd  be  better  off  in  bed.  Careful, 
baby!  Your  hair  is  catching  on  my  sequins.  Put 
her  down,  Harry.  You'll  spoil  the  shape  of  her 
shoulders  some  day." 

" Don't  you  want  to  go,  son?" 

"I—"  Judith  choke'd,  "I " 

"Well,  she's  not  crazy  about  it,  is  she?" 

"Then  do  send  her  to  bed." 

"No,  you  can't  break  your  promise  to  a  child, 
Minna." 

"Prig,"  said  mother  sweetly,  as  if  a  prig  were  a 
pleasant  thing  to  be.  "All  right,  let  her  go,  then. 
Oh,  Harry,  look  at  that  horse.  They've  sent  us 
the  knock-kneed  old  white  corpse  again." 


16  The  Wishing  Moon 

Mother  hurried  him  into  the  carriage,  and  it 
clattered  out  of  the  yard.  They  did  not  look 
back.  They  were  always  in  a  hurry,  and  rather 
cross  when  they  went  to  the  Everards.  For  once 
she  was  glad  to  see  them  go,  such  a  dreadful  crisis 
had  come  and  passed.  How  could  father  think 
she  did  not  want  to  go,  father  who  used  to  hang 
May-baskets  himself?  Norah  was  calling  her, 
but  she  did  not  answer.  Norah  was  cross  to-night. 
She  did  not  know  how  happy  Judith  was. 

Nobody  knew,  but  now  Judith  did  not  want  to 
tell.  She  did  not  want  sympathy.  She  was  not 
lonely.  This  secret  was  too  important  to  tell. 
And,  before  her  eyes,  a  lovely  and  comforting  thing 
was  happening,  silently  and  suddenly,  as  lovely 
things  do  happen.  Quite  still  on  the  steps,  a 
white  little  figure,  alone  in  a  preoccupied  world, 
but  calm  in  spite  of  it,  Judith  looked  and  looked. 

Above  the  horse-chestnut  tree,  so  filmy  and  faint 
that  the  star  looked  brighter  than  ever,  so  pale 
that  it  was  not  akin  to  the  stars  or  the  flickering 
lights  in  the  street,  but  to  the  dark  beyond,  where 
adventures  were,  so  friendly  and  sweet  that  it 
could  make  the  wish  in  your  heart  come  true, 
whether  you  were  clever  enough  to  wish  it  out 
loud  or  not,  hung  the  wishing  moon. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

A  SMALL,  silent  procession  was  edging  its 
way  along  Church  Street,  darkly  silhou- 
etted against  a  faintly  starred  sky.  It  was 
a  long  hour  later  now,  and  looked  later  still  on 
Church  Street.  There  were  few  lights  left  in  the 
string  of  houses  near  the  white  church,  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  street,  and  here,  at  the  upper  end,  there 
were  no  lights  but  the  one  street  lamp  near  the 
railroad  bridge  that  arched  black  overhead,  and 
there  were  few  houses.  The  street  did  not  look 
like  a  street  at  all,  but  a  country  road,  and  a 
muddy  one. 

The  narrow  board  sidewalk  creaked,  so  the 
procession  avoided  it,  and  stuck  to  the  muddy 
side  of  the  road. 

The  procession  looked  mysterious  enough,  even 
if  you  were  walking  at  the  tail  of  it  and  carrying  a 
heavy  market  basket;  if  you  had  to  smell  the  lan- 
tern, swung  just  in  front  of  you,  but  did  not  have 
the  fun  of  carrying  it;  if  a  shaker  cloak,  hooded  and 
picturesque,  in  the  procession,  hampered  your 
activities;  if  you  had  questions  to  ask,  and  no- 
body answered  you. 

17 


18  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Willard." 

"Sh!" 

One  by  one,  they  came  into  sight,  in  the  waver- 
ing light  of  the  street  lamp,  and  melted  into  the 
dark  under  the  bridge;  Ed,  in  his  white  sweater, 
captaining  them,  and  keenly  aware  of  it;  Rena  and 
Natalie,  with  the  larger  market  basket  between 
them;  Willard,  bulky  in  two  sweaters,  and  ten- 
derly shielding  his  lantern  with  a  third,  and  Judith. 
Her  face  showed  pale  with  excitement  against  the 
scarlet  of  her  hood.  One  hand  plucked  vainly  at 
Willard's  sleeve;  he  stalked  on,  and  would  not 
turn.  Only  these  five,  but  they  had  consulted 
and  organized  and  reorganized  for  half  an  hour  in 
the  Drews'  barn  before  they  started,  and  had 
hung  only  three  May-baskets  yet.  However,  the 
adventure  was  under  way  now. 

"Willard,  now  it's  my  turn  to  carry  the  lantern." 

"Judy,  you  can't.'* 

"Why?" 

"It  might  explode."  The  feeble  flame  gave 
one  dispirited  upward  spurt  at  this  encourage- 
ment, causing  excitement  in  front. 

"Oh,  Ed!" 

"Ed,  make  him  put  it  out." 

"Rena  and  Nat,  you  keep  still.  Judy's  not 
scared,  are  you  Judy?" 

"No!     Oh,  no!" 


The  Wishing  Moon  19 

"The  lantern's  a  sick  looking  sight,  and  he  can 
carry  it  if  he  wants  to,  but  we  don't  need  it." 

"I  like  that.  You  tried  to  get  me  to  let  you 
carry  it,  Ed." 

"Don't  talk  so  much." 

"Who  started  the  talk?" 

"Well,  who's  running  this,  anyway — you,  Wil- 
lardNash?" 

"There's  a  dog  in  that  house." 

"Sh!" 

"  But  that  dog's  only  a  cocker  spaniel.  He  can't 
>hurt  you." 

"Judy,sh!" 

Sh !  Somebody  was  always  saying  that.  It  was 
part  of  the  ceremony,  which  had  been  the  same  all 
three  times.  The  procession  was  halting  opposite 
the  Nealy  house.  A  whispered  quarrel  started 
every  time  they  approached  a  house,  and  was 
hushed  halfway  through  and  not  taken  up  again. 
The  quarrel  and  the  hush  were  part  of  the  cere- 
mony, too. 

The  Nealy  house  was  small  and  harmless  look- 
ing, and  entirely  dark,  but  they  did  not  allow  that 
to  make  them  reckless.  They  stood  looking 
warily  across  the  dark  street. 

"But  there's  nobody  there.  Maggie  Nealy's 
out,  too,  to-night,  and  her  mother — 

"Sh!"  Willard  put  a  hand  over  Judith  s  mouth. 


20  The  Wishing  Moon 

It  smelled  of  kerosene,  and  she  struggled,  but  did 
not  make  a  noise.  Just  at  this  dramatic  moment 
the  Nealy's  dog  barked. 

Judith  could  hear  her  heart  beat  and  feel  her 
damp  feet  getting  really  wet  and  cold. 

"Now,"  Ed  whispered,  close  to  her  ear  and  un- 
comfortably loud,  and  she  fumbled  in  her  basket. 
Willard  jiggled  the  lantern  dizzily  over  her  shoulder, 
tissue  paper  tore  under  her  fingers,  and  bonbons 
rattled.  Hanging  May-baskets  was  certainly  hard 
on  the  May-baskets,  and  they  were  so  pretty;  pale 
coloured,  like  flowers. 

"I  can't  find  the  right  one.  The  marks  are  all 
falling  off.  The  candy's  falling  out." 

"We  can't  stand  here  all  night.     Here 

"Willard,  take  your  hands  out.  Not  that 
one " 

"Willard  and  Judy  stop  fighting.  That  one 
will  do.  I'm  going." 

There  was  dead  silence  now,  and  Ed,  clutching 
the  wreck  of  a  sizable  crepe-paper  creation  to  the 
bosom  of  his  white  sweater,  doubled  into  a  crouch- 
ing, boy  scout  attitude,  crossed  the  road,  and  ap- 
proached the  house.  Nothing  but  his  own  com- 
mendable caution  delayed  his  approach.  The 
small  dog's  dreams  within  were  untroubled  now. 
There  were  no  signs  of  life. 

He  reached  the  front  door,  deposited  the  May- 


The  Wishing  Moon  21 

basket  with  a  force  that  further  demolished  it, 
and  took  to  his  heels.  After  another  breathless 
wait  the  procession  formed  behind  him  and 
trailed  after  him  up  the  road,  hilly  here,  so  that 
the  market  basket  grew  heavier. 

"Some  evening,"  Willard  murmured  to  himself, 
not  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  he  sounded  amiable. 

"Willard." 

"Well,  kid." 

"There  wasn't  anybody  in  that  house.  Ed 
knew  it." 

"There  might  have  been.  They  might  have 
come  home." 

"But  they  didn't  .  .  .  Willard,  is  this  all 
there  is  to  it?" 

"What?" 

"Hanging  May-baskets.  Throwing  them  down 
that  way.  I  thought  maybe  they  really  hung 
them,  on  the  doorknob — I  thought " 

"Silly!  Ed's  going  cross  lots,  and  up  the  wood 
road  to  Larribees'.  Good  work.  That  will  throw 
them  off  the  track." 

"Throw  who  off  the  track?" 

"  You  scared  ?     Want  to  go  home  ?  " 

"Oh,  no!  But  who?  There's  nobody  chasing 
us.  Nobody." 

"No.  We've  got  them  fooled.  It's  some 
evening." 


22  The  Wishing  Moon 

"  Willard,  where  are  the  paddies?" 

That  was  the  question  Judith  had  been  wanting 
to  ask  more  and  more,  for  an  hour,  but  it  came  in 
a  choked  voice,  and  nobody  heard.  They  were 
plunging  into  a  rough  and  stubbly  wood  lot,  and 
hushing  each  other  excitedly.  Twigs  caught  at 
Judith's  skirt,  and  it  was  hard  to  see  your  way, 
with  the  moon,  small  and  high  above  the  trees  in 
Larribee's  woods,  only  making  the  trees  look 
darker.  The  wood  road  was  little  used  and  over- 
grown. 

"  If  they  get  us  in  here ! " 

"They  won't,  Willard."  Judith's  voice  trem- 
bled. 

"Cry-baby!" 

"I  am  not." 

"Here,  buck  up.  We're  coming  out  right  here, 
back  of  the  carriage  house.  If  Ed  catches  you 
crying  he'll  send  you  home." 

But  Ed  had  his  mind  upon  higher  things.  "You 
girls  stay  here  with  the  baskets.  Don't  move. 
Willard,  you  go  right  and  I'll  go  left,  and  we'll 
meet  at  the  carriage-house  steps,  if  the  coast  is 
clear." 

"If  they  get  us " 

If!  The  boys  crunched  out  of  hearing  on  the 
gravel,  awesome  silence  set  in,  and  Rena  and 
Natalie  whispered;  Judith  was  not  to  be  awed. 


The  Wishing  Moon  23 

Four  May-baskets  hung,  and  nobody  objecting; 
dark  cross-streets  chosen  instead  of  Main  Street 
and  no  danger  pursuing  them  there.  If  there  was 
no  danger  in  the  whole  town,  why  should  there  be 
in  one  little  strip  of  woods,  though  it  was  dark  and 
strange,  and  full  of  whispering  noises?  Judith 
had  clung  to  Willard's  hand  in  terror,  turning 
into  the  cross-streets,  and  nothing  came  of  it. 
She  was  not  to  be  fooled  any  longer.  There  was 
no  danger. 

Not  that  she  wanted  to  be  chased.  She  did 
not  know  what  she  wanted.  But  she  had  come 
out  into  the  dark  to  find  something  that  was  not 
there.  She  had  been  happier  on  the  doorsteps 
thinking  about  it.  This,  then,  was  hanging  May- 
baskets — all  there  was  to  it.  But  it  was  pleasant 
here  in  the  dark,  pleasanter  than  walking  through 
mud,  and  quarrelling.  Now  Rena  and  Nat  were 
quarrelling  again. 

"  Get  back  there !     Ed  said  not  to  move." 
"They've   been   gone   too   long.     Something's 
the  matter." 

"There  they  come.     I  hear  them.     Get  back!" 

They   were   coming,   but   something   else   was 

happening.     Willard's    three    whistles    sounded, 

then  Ed's  voice,  and  a  noise  of  scuffling  on  the 

gravel — and  a  new  boy's  voice. 

Rena  and  Natalie,  upsetting  their  basket  as 


24  The  Wishing  Moon 

they  started,  and  not  noticing  it,  pushed  through 
the  trees  and  ran.  Judith  stood  still  and  listened. 
She  did  not  know  the  voice.  It  was  shrill  and 
clear.  She  could  hear  the  words  it  said  above  the 
others'  voices,  all  clamouring,  now,  at  once.  She 
held  her  breath  and  listened.  She  could  not  move. 

"I  don't  want  your  damn  May-baskets." 

"Liar!  Get  back  of  him,  Rena.  Come  on, 
Nat." 

"You'll  get  hurt.     Let  me  go.  " 

"Liar— Paddy!" 

The  magic  word  fell  unheeded.  The  boy  was 
laughing,  and  the  laugh  filled  her  ears,  a  splendid 
laugh,  fearless  and  clear. 

"Paddy!" 

"I  don't  want  your  damn  May-baskets." 

"Paddy— Paddy!" 

This  time  there  was  no  answer.  Judith,  tearing 
at  the  hooks  of  her  cape,  and  throwing  it  off  as 
she  ran,  broke  through  the  circling  trees.  Then 
she  stopped  and  looked. 

Rena  stood  high  on  the  carriage-house  steps  and 
held  the  lantern.  It  wavered  and  swung  in  her 
hand,  and  threw  a  flickering  circle  of  light  round 
the  group  by  the  steps. 

The  sprawled  shadows  at  their  feet  seemed  to 
have  an  undue  number  of  arms  and  legs,  and  the 
children  were  a  struggling,  uncertain  mass  of  mo- 


The  Wishing  Moon  25 

tion,  hard  to  make  out,  like  the  shadows,  but  they 
were  only  four:  Willard,  grunting  and  groaning; 
Natalie  attacking  spasmodically  in  the  rear,  and 
the  strange  little  boy,  the  enemy.  He  was  the  heart 
of  the  struggling  group,  and  Judith  looked  only  at 
him.  She  could  do  nothing  but  look,  for  Judith 
had  never  seen  a  little  boy  like  this. 

They  were  three  against  one,  and  the  one  was 
a  match  for  them.  He  was  slender  and  strong, 
holding  his  ground  and  making  no  noise.  He  was 
coatless  and  ragged  shifted,  and  one  sleeve  of  his 
shirt  was  torn,  so  that  you  could  see  how  thin 
his  shoulder  was.  He  held  his  head  high,  and 
smiled  as  he  fought.  A  shock  of  blond  hair  was 
tossed  high  above  his  forehead.  He  had  a  thin, 
white  face,  and  dark  jewels  of  flashing  eyes.  As 
she  stood  and  looked,  they  met  Judith's  eyes,  and 
Judith  knew  that  she  had  never  seen  a  boy  like 
this,  because  there  was  no  boy  like  this — no  little 
boy  so  wild  and  strange  and  free,  so  ragged  and 
brave.  If  he  could  come  out  of  the  dark,  it  was 
full  of  unguessable  things,  splendid  and  strange 
and  new.  Judith's  heart  beat  hard,  a  hot  feeling 
swept  over  her,  and  a  queer  mist  came  before  her 
eyes.  A  wonderful  boy;  a  fairy  boy!  What 
would  they  do  to  him?  What  did  they  do  to 
paddies?  There  was  no  little  boy  like  this  in  the 
world. 


26  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Judy!"  The  others  had  seen  her  and  were 
calling  her.  "Come  on.  Help  get  him  down." 

"He  chased  Willard  round  here." 

"He  led  the  gang  last  year." 

"It's  Neil  Donovan." 

"Get  him  down!" 

Judith  did  not  answer  then.  Her  cheeks  flamed 
red,  and  her  eyes  looked  as  big  and  dark  as  the 
stranger's,  and  her  small  hands  clenched  tight. 
It  was  only  a  minute  that  she  stood  so.  The 
three  were  close  to  him,  hiding  him.  She  saw  his 
face  again,  above  Willard's  pushing  shoulder,  and 
then — she  could  not  see  it. 

"Judy,  what's  the  matter?     Come  on!" 

And  Judith  came.  She  plunged  straight  into 
the  struggling  group,  and  hammered  at  it  indis- 
criminately with  two  small  fists.  She  caught  at  a 
waving  coat  sleeve,  and  pulled  it — Willard's,  and 
it  tore  in  her  hands.  She  spotted  Ed  s  white 
sweater,  and  beat  at  it  fiercely,  with  all  her 
strength. 

"That's  me,  Judy.     Cut  it  out!" 

"Then  let  him  go.  Three  to  one  is  no  fair. 
Let  him  go!"  They  did  not  hear  her,  or  care 
which  side  she  was  on,  or  take  the  trouble  to  drive 
her  away.  Judith  drew  back  and  stood  and  looked 
at  them,  breathless  and  glowing  and  undefeated, 
for  one  long  minute. 


The  Wishing  Moon  27 

"Boy,"  she  called  then,  softly,  as  if  he  could 
hear  when  the  others  could  not,  "wait!  It's  all 
right,  boy.  It's  all  right." 

Then  she  charged  up  the  steps  at  Rena.  Judy, 
the  most  demure  and  faithful  of  allies,  confronted 
Rena,  amazingly  but  unmistakably  changed  to  a 
foe;  Judy,  with  her  immaculate  and  enviable 
frock  smirched  and  torn,  and  her  sleek  hair  wildly 
tossed,  her  cheeks  darkly  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
strange  and  shining;  a  Judy  to  be  reckoned  with 
and  admired  and  feared — a  new  Judy. 

"What's  the  matter?  Are  you  crazy?  What 
do  you  want?" 

"Make  them  let  him  go.  They've  got  to  let 
him  go." 

"He's  a  paddy — Neil  Donovan — a  paddy." 

"They've  got  to  let  him  go.  .  .  .  Give 
that  to  me." 

"  What  for?    Judy,  don't  hurt  me.     Judy ! " 

Judith  wasted  no  more  words.  She  caught 
Rena's  wrist,  twisted  it,  and  snatched  the  lantern 
out  of  her  hand.  She  held  it  high  above  her  head, 
and  shook  it  recklessly. 

"Don't,  Judy!  Don't!"  The  flame  sputtered 
crazily.  Judy  still  shook  the  lantern,  dancing 
out  of  reach,  and  laughing.  "Nat — everybody — 
stop  Judy.  She's  making  the  lantern  explode. 
Oh,  Ed!" 


28  The  Wishing  Moon 

Natalie  heard,  and  then  the  others.  They 
looked  up  at  her,  all  of  them.  Rena  and  Natalie 
screamed.  Willard  started  toward  her.  "Put 
it  down,  kid,"  he  was  calling. 

"I'll  put  it  down     .     .     .     Now  boy." 

There  he  was,  with  Ed's  arm  gripping  his 
shoulders.  He  did  not  give  any  sign  that  he  knew 
she  was  trying  to  help  him,  or  that  he  wanted 
help.  He  was  not  afraid  of  the  lantern,  like  the 
others.  His  black  eyes  were  laughing  at  all  of 
them — laughing  at  Judith,  too.  He  was  looking 
straight  at  Judith. 

"Now,  boy,"  she  called,  "now  run!"  and  she 
gripped  the  lantern  tight,  swung  it  high,  and 
dashed  it  to  the  ground. 

It  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  with  a  crash  of 
breaking  glass.  The  light  sputtered  out.  The  air 
was  full  of  the  smell  of  spilled  kerosene.  In  the 
faint  radiance  that  was  not  moonlight,  but  a  glim- 
mering reflection  of  it,  more  confusing  than  dark- 
ness, dim  figures  struggled  and  shrill  voices  were 
lifted. 

"Get  him.     Hold  him." 

"Get  the  lantern." 

"Get  Judy." 

"Hold  him,  Ed." 

"That's  me." 

"Get  him,  Rena." 


The  Wishing  Moon  29 

Judith  laughed,  and  out  of  the  dark  he  had 
come  from,  the  dark  of  May-night,  lit  by  a  wishing 
moon,  that  grants  your  secret  wish  for  better  or 
for  worse,  irrevocably,  a  far-away  laugh  answered 
Judith's.  The  boy  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

MISS  Judith  Devereux  Randall  was  get- 
ting into  her  first  evening  gown. 
The  Green  River  High  School  foot- 
ball team  was  giving  its  annual  September  concert 
and  ball  in  Odd  Fellows'  Hall  to-night.  The 
occasion  was  as  important  to  the  school  as  a  com- 
ing-out party.  The  new  junior  class,  just  gradu- 
ated from  seclusion  upstairs  to  the  big  assembly 
room  where  the  seniors  were,  made  its  first  public 
appearance  in  society  there.  Judith  was  a  junior 
now. 

Her  first  dance,  and  her  first  evening  gown;  it 
was  a  memorable  scene,  fit  to  immortalize  with  the 
first  love-letter  and  the  first  proposal,  in  a  series  of 
pictures  of  great  moments  in  a  girl's  life — chosen 
by  some  masculine  illustrator,  touchingly  confi- 
dent that  he  knows  what  the  great  moments  of  a 
girl's  life  are.  Judith  seemed  to  be  taking  this 
moment  too  calmly  for  one. 

The  dress  lay  ready  on  the  bed,  fluffy  and  light 
and  sheer,  a  white  dream  of  a  dress,  with  two 
unopened  florist's  boxes  beside  it,  but  there  was  no 
picturesque  disarray  of  excited  toilet-making  in 

30 


The  Wishing  Moon  31 

her  big,  brightly  lighted  room,  and  no  dream- 
promoting  candlelight.  And  there  were  no  pen- 
nants or  football  trophies  disfiguring  the  daintily 
flowered  wall  paper,  and  no  pictures  or  programs 
in  the  mirror  of  the  dainty  dressing-table;  there 
was  no  other  young  girl's  room  in  town  where  they 
were  prohibited,  but  there  was  no  other  room  so 
charming  as  Judith's,  all  blue-flowered  chintz 
and  bird's-eye  maple  and  white  fur  rugs,  and 
whiter  covers  and  curtains. 

Judith  was  the  most  charming  and  immaculate 
thing  in  the  room,  as  she  stood  before  the  cheval- 
glass,  bare  armed  and  slim  and  straight  in  be- 
ruffled,  beribboned  white,  pinning  the  soft,  pale 
braids  tight  around  her  small,  high-poised  head. 
Quite  the  most  charming  thing,  and  Norah,  finger- 
ing the  dress  on  the  bed  disapprovingly,  and  giving 
her  keen,  sidelong  glances,  was  aware  of  it,  but 
did  not  believe  in  compliments,  even  to  the  crea- 
ture she  loved  best  in  the  world. 

Her  mouth  was  set  and  her  brown  eyes  were 
bright  with  the  effort  of  repressing  them.  Judith, 
seeing  her  face  in  the  glass,  turned  suddenly  and 
slipped  her  arms  round  the  formidable  old  crea- 
ture's neck,  and  laughed  at  her. 

"Don't  you  think  I'm  perfectly  beautiful?" 
she  demanded.  "If  you  really  love  me,  why  not 
tell  me  so?" 


32  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Your  colour's  good."  Judith  pressed  a  deli- 
cately flushed  cheek  to  Norah's,  and  attempted  a 
butterfly  kiss,  which  she  evaded  grimly.  "Good 
enough — healthy  and  natural." 

"Oh,  no.  I  made  it.  Oh,  with  hot  water  and 
then  cold,  I  mean.  Nana,  don't  begin  about 
rouge.  Don't  be  silly.  That  red  stuff  in  the 
box  on  mother's  dresser  is  only  nail  paste,  truly." 

"Who  sent  the  flowers?" 

"Look  and  see." 

"Much  you  care,  if  you'll  let  me  look." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  care?" 

"Much  you  care  about  the  flowers  or  the 
party." 

Judith  had  caught  up  the  alluring  dress  without 
a  second  glance,  and  slipped  it  expertly  over  her 
head,  and  was  jerking  capably  at  the  fastenings. 

"With  the  spoiled  airs  of  you,  and  Willard 
Nash  sending  to  Wells  for  flowers,  when  his  father 
clerked  in  a  drygoods  store  at  his  age 

"Oh,  carnations  are  cheap — or  he  wouldn't 
get  them." 

"These  aren't  cheap,  then." 

The  smaller  box  was  full  of  white  violets. 

"  Give  them  to  me.  No,  you  can't  see  the  card. 
You  don't  deserve  to.  You're  too  cross,  and 
besides  you  wouldn't  like  it.  Do  my  two  top 
hooks.  Now,  am  I  perfectly  beautiful?  " 


The  Wishing  Moon  33 

Under  her  capable  hands  a  pretty  miracle  had 
been  going  on,  common  enough,  but  always  new. 
Ruffle  above  ruffle,  the  soft,  shapeless  mass  of 
white  had  shaken  itself  into  its  proper  lines  and 
contours,  lightly,  like  a  bird's  plumage  settling 
itself,  and  with  it  the  change  that  comes  when  a 
woman  with  the  inborn,  unteachable  trick  of 
wearing  clothes  puts  on  a  perfect  gown,  had  come 
to  her  slight  girl's  figure.  It  looked  softer, 
rounder,  and  more  lightly  poised.  Her  throat 
looked  whiter  above  the  encircling  folds  of  white. 
Her  shy  hah*  smile  was  sweeter.  The  white 
violets,  caught  to  her  high  girdle,  were  sweeter, 
too. 

Norah  surrendered,  her  voice  husky  and  reluct- 
ant. 

"You're  tqo  good  for  them." 

"For  the  G.  H.  S.  dance?  For  Willard?" 
Judith  pretended  great  humility:  "Nana!" 

"There's  others  you're  more  than  too  good  for. 
Others " 

"Nana,  don't." 

"  Come  here."  Norah  put  two  heavy  hands  on 
her  shoulders  and  regarded  her  grimly.  It  was 
the  kind  of  look  that  Judith  used  to  associate  with 
second  sight,  and  dread.  It  was  quite  formid- 
able still.  But  Judith  met  it  steadily,  with  some- 
thing mature  and  assured  about  her  look  that  had 


34  The  Wishing  Moon 

'  V 

nothing  to  do  with  the  softness  and  sweetness  of 
her  in  her  fluffy  draperies,  something  that  had  no 
place  in  the  heart  of  a  child;  something  that  Norah 
saw. 

"Too  good  for  them,  and  you  know  it,"  pro- 
nounced Norah.  "You  know  it  too  well.  You 
know  too  many  things.  A  heart  of  gold  you've 
got,  but  your  head  will  rule  your  heart." 

"Nonsense."  Norah  permitted  herself  to  be 
kissed,  still  looking  forbidding,  but  holding  Judith 
tight. 

"Little  white  lamb,  may  you  find  what's  good 
enough  for  you,"  she  conceded,  unexpectedly, 
"and  may  you  know  it  when  you  find  it." 

"You're  an  old  dear,  and  you're  good  enough 
for  me." 

Downstairs  there  was  a  more  critical  audience 
to  face.  Judith  saw  it  in  the  library  door,  and 
stood  still  on  the  stair  landing,  looking  down. 
She  held  her  head  high,  and  coloured  faintly. 
She  looked  very  slender  and  white  against  the 
dark  woodwork  of  the  hall.  The  Randall  house 
had  been  renovated  the  year  before — becoming 
ten  years  older  in  the  process,  early  Colonial 
instead  of  a  comfortable  mixture  of  late  Colonial 
and  mid-Victorian.  The  hall  was  particularly 
Colonial,  and  a  becoming  background  for  Judith, 
but  the  dark-haired  lady  in  the  door  had  no  more 


The  Wishing  Moon  35 

faith  in  compliments  than  Norah,  and  there  was  a 
worried  wrinkle  in  her  low  forehead  to-night,  as 
if  her  mind  were  on  other  things. 

"Will  I  do,  mother?" 

"It's  a  good  little  gown,  but  there's  something 
wrong  with  the  neck  line.  You're  really  going 
then?" 

"I  thought  I  would." 

"Be  back  by  half -past  ten.  We're  going  to 
have  some  cards  here.  The  Colonel  likes  you  to 
pass  things." 

"I  thought  father's  head  ached." 

"He's  sleeping  it  off." 

"I — wanted  him  to  see  how  I  looked." 

"I  can't  see  why  you  go." 

"I  thought  I  would.  I'll  go  outside  now,  and 
wait  for  Willard." 

Judith  closed  the  early  Colonial  door  softly 
behind  her,  and  settled  down  on  the  steps.  She 
arranged  her  coat,  not  the  one  her  mother  lent 
her  for  state  occasions,  but  a  white  polo  coat  of 
her  own,  with  due  regard  for  her  ruffles  and  her 
violets.  The  violets  were  from  Colonel  Everard. 
Norah,  with  her  tiresome  prejudice  against  the 
Everards,  and  mother,  who  thought  and  talked  so 
much  about  them  that  she  was  almost  tiresome, 
too,  were  both  wrong  about  this  party.  She  did 
want  to  go. 


36  The  Wishing  Moon 

The  church  clock  was  striking  nine.  There  was 
nothing  deep  toned  or  solemn  about  the  chime; 
it  was  rather  tinny,  but  she  liked  it.  It  sounded 
wide  awake,  as  if  things  were  going  to  happen. 
Nine,  and  the  party  was  under  way.  The  con- 
cert was  almost  over.  The  concert  was  only  for 
chaperones  and  girls  who  were  afraid  of  not  getting 
their  dance  orders  filled.  The  truly  elect  arrived 
just  in  time  to  dance.  Some  of  them  were  passing 
the  house  already.  Judith  saw  girls  with  light- 
coloured  gowns  showing  under  dark  coats,  and 
swathing  veils  that  preserved  elaborate  coiffures. 
Bits  of  conversation,  monosyllabic  and  formal,  to 
fit  the  clothes,  drifted  across  the  lawn  to  her. 

She  had  not  been  allowed  to  help  decorate  the 
hall,  but  she  had  driven  with  Willard  to  Nashes' 
Corners  for  goldenrod,  and  when  they  carried  it 
in,  big,  glowing  bundles  of  it,  she  had  seen  fascin- 
ating things:  Japanese  lanterns,  cheesecloth  in  yel- 
low and  white,  the  school  colours,  still  in  the  piece, 
and  full  of  unguessable  possibilities,  and  a  rough 
board  table,  the  foundation  of  the  elaborately 
decorated  counter  where  Rena  and  other  girls 
would  serve  the  fruit  punch.  All  the  time  she 
dressed  she  had  been  listening  for  the  music  of 
Dugan's  orchestra,  and  caught  only  tantalizing 
strains  of  tunes  that  she  could  not  identify.  There 
was  a  sameness  about  the  repertoire.  Most  of 


The  Wishing  Moon  37 

the  tunes  sounded  unduly  sentimental  and  re- 
signed. But  now  they  were  playing  their  star 
number,  a  dramatic  piece  of  program  music  called 
"A  Day  on  the  Battlefield." 

The  day  began  with  bird  notes  and  bugle  calls, 
but  was  soon  enlivened  by  cavalry  charges  and 
cannonades.  The  drum,  and  an  occasional  blank 
cartridge,  very  telling  in  effect,  were  producing 
them  now.  Judith  listened  eagerly. 

She  needed  friends  of  her  own  age  for  the  next 
two  years,  but  she  must  not  identify  herself  with 
them  too  closely,  because  she  would  have  wider 
social  opportunities  by  and  by;  that  was  what  her 
mother  said,  and  she  did  not  contest  it;  by  and 
by,  but  this  party  was  to-night. 

Willard  was  coming  for  her  now,  half  an  hour 
ahead  of  time,  as  usual.  He  crossed  the  lawn, 
and  sat  heavily  down  on  the  steps. 

"  Hello.     Don't  talk,"  said  Judith. 

Willard  was  silent  only  long  enough  to  turn  this 
remark  over  in  his  mind,  and  decide  that  she 
could  not  mean  it,  but  that  was  five  minutes,  for 
all  his  mental  processes  were  slow.  Down  in  the 
hall  the  last  of  the  heroes  was  dying,  and  Dugan's 
orchestra  rendered  Taps  sepulchrally.  Judith 
drew  a  long  breath  of  shivering  content. 

"Cold?  "inquired  Willard. 

"No." 


38  The  Wishing  Moon 

"You're  looking  great  to-night." 

'  *  In  the  dark  ?     In  an  old  polo  coat  ? ' ' 

"You  always  look  great." 

Judith  was  aware  of  an  ominous  stir  beside  her,, 
and  changed  her  position. 

"Oh,  Judy." 

"When  you  know  I  won't  let  you  hold  my 
hand,  what  makes  you  try?" 

"If  I  didn't  try,  how  would  I  know?"  said  Wil- 
lard  neatly. 

"Oh,  if  you  don't  know  without  trying,"  Judith 
sighed.  The  cannonade  in  the  hall  was  over,  and 
the  night  was  empty  without  it. 

"They  took  in  thirteen  dollars  and  fifty-two 
cents  selling  tickets  for  to-night."  Willard, 
checked  upon  sentimental  subjects,  proceeded  to 
facts.  He  had  so  many  at  command  that  he 
could  not  be  checked. 

"Who  did?" 

"The  team.  They  divide  it.  Only  this  year 
they've  got  to  let  the  sub-team  in  on  it,  the  faculty 
made  them,  and  they're  sore.  And  there's  a  sub 
on  the  reception  committee." 

"I  don't  care." 

"You  ought  to.  A  sub,  and  a  roughneck. 
The  sub-team  is  a  bunch  of  roughnecks,  but  he's 
the  worst.  On  the  reception  committee!  But 
they'll  take  it  out  of  him." 


The  Wishing  Moon  39 

* '  Who  ?     The  reception  committee  ? ' ' 

"No,  the  girls.  They  won't  dance  with  him. 
He  won't  get  a  decent  name  on  his  card.  Rough- 
neck, keeping  Ed  off  the  team.  He's  an  Irish 
boy." 

"An  Irish  boy?"  Something,  vague  as  an  un- 
forgotten  dream  that  comes  back  at  night,  though 
you  are  too  busy  to  recall  it  in  waking  hours, 
urged  Judith  to  protest.  "So  is  the  senior  presi- 
dent Irish." 

"No,  the  vice-president."  There  was  a  wide 
distinction  between  the  two  offices.  "Besides" — • 
this  was  a  wider  distinction — "  Murph  lives  at  the 
Falls." 

Living  at  the  Falls,  the  little  settlement  at  the 
head  of  the  river,  and  lunching  at  noon,  in  the 
empty  schoolhouse,  out  of  tin  boxes,  with  a  forlorn 
assembly  of  half  a  dozen  or  so,  was  a  handicap  that 
few  could  live  down. 

"Murph?" 

"The  team  calls  him  Murphy.  I  don't  know 
why.  They're  crazy  about  him.  He  lives  a 
half  mile  north  of  the  Falls.  Walking  five  miles 
a  day  to  learn  Lathi !  He's  a  fool  and  a  roughneck, 
but  he  can  play  ball.  Yesterday  on  Brown's 
field " 

Willard  started  happily  upon  technicalities  of 
football  formations.  Judith  stopped  listening. 


40  The  Wishing  Moon 

He  could  talk  on  unaided,  pausing  only  for  an 
occasional  yes  or  no. 

Brown's  field!  It  was  a  tree-fringed  stretch  of 
level  grass  set  high  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  with  glimpses  of  the 
river  showing  through  the  trees  far  below.  Here, 
on  long  autumn  afternoons,  sparkling  and  cool, 
but  golden  at  the  heart,  ending  gloriously  in  red, 
sudden  sunsets,  football  practice  went  on  every 
day;  shifting  here  and  there,  mysteriously,  over 
the  field,  the  arbitrary  evolutions  that  were  foot- 
ball, the  shuffling,  and  shouting,  and  panting 
silence;  on  rugs  and  sweaters  under  the  trees, 
an  audience  of  girls,  shivering  delightfully,  or 
holding  some  hero's  sweater,  too  proud  to  be 
cold. 

Judith  had  seen  all  this  through  Willard's  eyes, 
or  from  a  passing  carriage,  but  now  she  would  go 
herself,  go  perhaps  every  day.  Her  mother  would 
let  her.  She  would  not  understand,  but  she  would 
let  her,  just  as  she  had  to-night.  Judith  could 
be  part  of  the  close-knit  life  of  the  school  in  the  last 
two  years  there — the  years  that  counted.  The 
party  was  a  test  and  her  mother  had  met  it  fa- 
vourably. That  was  why  she  was  glad  to  go,  as 
nearly  as  she  understood.  She  did  not  know 
quite  what  she  wanted  of  the  party,  only  how  very 
much  she  wanted  to  go. 


The  Wishing  Moon  41 

Willard  was  asking  a  question  insistently: 
"Didn't  he  do  pretty  work?" 

"Who?" 

"Why,  the  fellow  I'm  telling  you  about — the 
roughneck." 

"  Roughneck,"  said  Judith  dreamily.  The  word 
had  a  fine,  strong  sound.  Willard  was  holding 
her  hand  again,  and  she  felt  too  comfortable  and 
content  to  stop  him. 

The  orchestra  down  the  street  was  playing  the 
number  that  usually  ended  its  programs,  a  medley 
of  plantation  melodies.  They  were  never  such  a 
strain  on  the  resources  of  a  hard-working  but  only 
five-piece  orchestra  as  the  ambitious,  martial 
selections,  and  here,  heard  across  the  dark,  they 
were  beautiful:  plaintive  and  thrillingly  sweet. 
"Old  Kentucky  Home,"  was  the  sweetest  of  all, 
lonely  and  sad  as  youth,  and  insistent  as  youth, 
claiming  its  own  against  an  alien  world. 

"Oh,  Willard!"  breathed  Judith.  Then,  in 
quite  another  tone,  "Oh,  Willard!" 

Encouraged  by  her  silence,  he  was  reaching  for 
her  other  hand,  and  slipping  an  arm  round  her 
waist. 

"You  feel  so  soft,"  objected  Judith  frankly, 
getting  up.  "I  do  hope  I'll  never  fall  in  love  with 
a  fat  man.  Come  on,  let's  go ! " 

She  waited  for  him  politely  on  the  sidewalk,  and 


42  The  Wishing  Moon 

permitted  her  arm  to  be  duly  grasped.  Willard, 
sulky  and  silent,  but  preserving  appearances, 
piloted  her  dutifully  down  the  street.  Willard's 
silences  were  rare,  and  Judith  usually  made  the 
most  of  them,  but  she  did  not  permit  this  one  to 
last.  She  did  not  want  any  one,  even  Willard, 
to  be  unhappy  to-night. 

"Willard." 

"What?" 

"Don't  take  such  long  steps,  or  I  can't  keep  up 
with  you.  You're  so  tall." 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  late?  " 

"Oh,  no!    Are  we?" 

"No." 

"But  there's  only  one  couple  behind  us,  and 
the  music's  stopped." 

"It  takes  hah*  an  hour  to  get  the  chairs  moved 
out." 

"Willard." 

"Well?" 

"Is  the  first  dance  a  grand  march  and  circle?" 

"No,  that's  gone  out.  They  have  contras  in- 
stead, but  the  first  is  a  waltz." 

"Willard,  mother  said  I  mustn't  dance  contras, 
but  I  shall — with  you." 

"Well!" 

"Don't  you  want  me  to?" 

"Yes." 


The  Wishing  Moon  43 

"Willard,  are  you  cross  with  me?" 

"No."  They  were  in  front  of  the  Odd  Fellows' 
Building  now.  The  door  was  open.  The  pair 
behind  them  crowded  past  and  clattered  hurriedly 
up  the  bare,  polished  stairs.  The  orchestra  could 
be  heard  tuning  industriously  above.  They  were 
almost  late,  but  Willard  drew  her  into  a  corner  of 
the  entrance  hall,  and  pressed  her  hand  ardently. 

"Judy,  I  couldn't  be  cross  with  you." 

"Don't  be  too  sure!"  Judith  laughed,  and  ran 
upstairs  ahead  of  him. 

"  There's  the  ladies'  dressing-room.  I'll  get  the 
dance  orders  and  meet  you  outside." 

There  was  a  whispering,  giggling  crowd  in  the 
dressing-room,  mostly  seniors,  girls  she  did  not 
know,  but  they  seemed  to  know  her,  and  she  was 
conscious  of  curious  looks  at  her  hair  and  dress. 
It  was  the  simplest  dress  in  the  room,  and  her 
mother  would  not  have  approved  of  the  other 
dresses,  but  Judith  did.  There  was  something 
festive  about  the  bright  colours,  too  bright  most 
of  them :  sharp  pinks,  and  cold,  hard  blues.  There 
was  a  yellow  dress  on  a  brunette,  who  was  cheap- 
ened by  the  crude  colour,  and  a  scarlet  dress  too 
bright  for  any  one  to  wear  successfully  on  a  big, 
pretty  blond  girl,  who  almost  could.  Judith 
smelled  three  distinct  kinds  of  cheap  talcum 
powder,  and  preferred  them  all  to  her  own  un- 


44  The  Wishing  Moon 

scented  French  variety.  She  had  a  moment  of 
sudden  loneliness.  Was  she  so  glad  to  be  here, 
after  all? 

It  was  only  a  moment.  The  tuning  of  instru- 
ments outside  broke  off,  and  the  first  bars  of  a 
waltz  droned  invitingly  out:  "If  you  really  love 
me,"  the  song  that  had  been  in  her  ears  all  the 
evening,  a  flimsy  ballad  of  the  year,  hauntingly 
sweet,  as  only  such  short-lived  songs  can  be. 
Moving  to  the  tune  of  it,  Judith  crowded  with  the 
other  girls  out  of  the  dressing-room. 

The  hall  was  transformed.  It  was  not  the  room 
she  had  dreamed  of,  a  great  room,  dimly  lit, 
peopled  with  low- talking  dancers,  circling  through 
the  dimness.  The  place  looked  smaller  decorated, 
and  the  decorations  themselves  seemed  to  have 
shrunk  since  she  saw  them.  The  lanterns  had 
been  hung  only  where  nails  were  already  driven, 
and  under  the  supervision  of  the  janitor,  who  would 
not  permit  them  to  be  lighted.  The  cheesecloth 
was  conspicuous  nowhere  except  around  the  little 
stage,  which  it  draped  in  tight,  mathematically 
measured  festoons.  Beneath,  under  the  mislead- 
ing legend,  "G.  H.  S.,"  painted  in  yellow  on  a 
suspended  football,  Dugan's  orchestra  performed 
its  duties  faithfully,  with  handkerchiefs  guarding 
wilted  collars. 

The   goldenrod,    tortured    and    wired    into    a 


The  Wishing  Moon  45 

screen  to  hide  the  footlights,  was  drooping  away 
already  and  showing  the  supporting  wires.  The 
benches  were  stacked  against  the  wall,  all  but  an 
ill-omened  row  designed  for  wall-flowers,  and  the 
floor  was  cleared  and  waxed.  But  little  patches 
of  wax  that  were  not  rubbed  in  lurked  for  unwary 
feet,  and  there  were  clouds  of  dust  in  the  air.  In 
one  corner  of  the  hall  most  of  the  prominent 
guests  of  the  evening  were  attempting  to  obtain 
dance  orders  at  once,  or  to  push  their  way  back 
with  them  to  the  young  ladies  they  were  escorting. 

These  ladies,  and  other  ladies  without  escorts, 
were  crowding  each  other  against  the  stacked 
benches  and  maneuvering  for  positions  where  their 
dance  orders  would  fill  promptly.  The  atmos- 
phere was  one  of  strife  and  stress.  But  Judith 
found  no  fault  with  it.  She  was  not  aware  of  it. 

In  a  corner  near  the  stage,  by  the  closed  door  of 
the  refreshment-room,  a  boy  was  standing  alone. 
He  was  tearing  up  his  dance  order.  It  was  empty, 
and  he  was  making  no  further  attempts  to  fill  it. 
He  tore  it  quite  unostentatiously  so  that  no  young 
lady  disposed  to  be  amused  by  his  defeat  could 
see  anything  worth  staring  at  in  his  performance, 
and  he  was  forgotten  in  his  corner.  But  Judith 
stared. 

She  had  remembered  him  tall,  but  he  was  only  a 
little  taller  than  herself.  His  black  suit  was  shiny, 


46  The  Wishing  Moon 

and  a  size  too  small  for  him,  but  it  was  carefully 
brushed,  and  he  wore  it  with  an  air.  His  hair 
was  darker  than  she  remembered,  a  pale,  soft 
brown.  It  was  too  long,  and  it  curled  at  the 
temples.  He  stood  squarely,  facing  the  room,  as 
if  he  did  not  care  what  anybody  did  to  him,  but 
there  was  a  look  about  his  mouth  as  if  he  cared. 
He  raised  his  eyes.  They  were  darker  than  she 
remembered,  darker  and  stranger  than  any  eyes 
in  the  world.  They  looked  hurt,  but  there  was  a 
laugh  in  them,  too,  and  across  the  hall  they  were 
looking  straight  at  Judith. 

"Here  you  are.  I've  got  myself  down  for  all 
your  contras.  Just  in  time." 

Willard,  mopping  his  brow,  slipping  on  a  patch 
of  wax,  and  saving  himself  with  a  skating  motion, 
brought  up  triumphantly  beside  her,  waving  two 
dance  orders.  Judith  pushed  them  away,  and 
said  something — she  hardly  knew  what. 

"What,  Judy?  What's  that?  You're  engaged 
for  this?  You  can't  dance  it  with  me?" 

"No.     No,  I  can't." 

Judith  slipped  past  him,  and  started  across  the 
floor.  The  music  was  louder  now,  as  if  you  were 
really  meant  to  dance,  and  dance  with  the  person 
you  wanted  to  most.  The  floor  was  filling  now 
with  dancers  stepping  forward  awkwardly,  but 
turning  into  different  creatures  when  they  danced, 


The  Wishing  Moon  47 

caught  by  the  light,  sure  swing  of  the  music,  whirl- 
ing and  gliding.  The  words  sang  themselves  to 
Judith,  the  silly,  beautiful  words: 

Please  don't  keep  me  waiting. 

Won't  you  let  me  know 
That  you  really  love  me? 

Tell — me — so. 

A  girl  in  red  was  dancing  in  a  quick,  darting 
sort  of  way,  in  and  out,  among  the  others,  and 
her  dress  was  beautiful,  too,  like  a  flower.  The 
boy  in  the  corner  was  watching  it.  He  did  not 
see  Judith  come. 

"I  thought  you  couldn't  be  real.  When  I  never 
saw  you  again  I  thought  I  had  dreamed  you.'* 

Judith  said  it  softly  and  breathlessly,  and  he  did 
not  hear.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  he 
turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"Don't  you  remember  me?"  Judith  was  too 
happy  to  be  hurt  even  by  this.  The  light,  sweet 
music  called  to  her.  "Don't  you  remember? 
Never  mind!  Come  and  dance  with  me." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

WILLARD  stood  still   and  stared  after 
Judith  for  one  bewildered  minute;  that 
was  as  long  as  he  could  stand  still. 
Odd  Fellows'  Hall  had  ceased  to  afford  standing- 
room. 

The  floor  was  filling  and  more  than  filling  with 
determined  young  persons  who  were  there  to 
dance,  and  looked  as  if  they  had  never  had  any 
aim  but  to  dance.  The  enthralled  silence,  which 
was  more  general  than  conversation,  advertised 
it.  Even  acknowledged  belles,  like  the  girl  in 
red,  coquetted  incidentally,  with  significant  but 
brief  confidences  and  briefer  upward  glances. 
There  was  an  alarming  concentration,  intent  as 
youth  itself,  to  be  read  in  their  unsmiling  faces 
and  eager  eyes. 

They  danced  quite  wonderfully,  most  of  them, 
as  only  country-bred  young  people  can,  with  free- 
limbed  young  bodies,  more  used  to  adventuring 
in  the  open  air  than  to  dancing,  but  attuned  to 
the  rhythm  of  the  dance  by  right  of  their  youth. 
The  old-fashioned  waltz,  that  our  grandmothers 
lost  their  hearts  to  the  time  of,  still  prevailed  in 

48 


The  Wishing  Moon  49 

Green  River;  not  the  jerkier  performance  that 
was  already  opening  the  way  for  the  one-step  and 
the  dance  craze  in  larger  centres,  but  the  old 
waltz,  with  the  first  beat  of  each  measure  heavily 
emphasized — a  slow  swinging,  beautiful  dance, 
and  they  danced  it  with  all  their  hearts. 

In  and  out  among  them,  two  slender,  quick- 
turning  figures  were  making  an  intricate  way. 
The  girl  danced  delicately  and  surely,  a  faint, 
half  smile  parting  her  lips,  her  small,  smooth  head 
erect,  the  silvery  gold  hair  that  crowned  it  shim- 
mering and  pale  in  the  uncompromising  light  of  the 
newly  installed  electric  chandeliers,  her  eyes  intent 
on  the  boy. 

His  performance  was  not  expert,  but  it  had  a 
charm  all  its  own.  He  put  a  great  deal  of  strength 
into  it,  and  made  it  evident  that  he  possessed  still 
more;  strength  enough  to  master  the  art  of  dancing 
once  and  for  all,  by  the  sheer  force  of  it,  if  he  cared 
to  exert  it,  and  a  laughing  light  in  his  eyes,  as  if 
dancing  was  not  important  enough  for  that,  and 
nothing  else  was. 

An  ambitious  pair,  experimenting  with  the  dip 
waltz,  just  introduced  that  year,  and  pausing  on 
the  most  awkward  spots  in  the  crowded  floor, 
blocked  his  path,  and  he  swung  heavily  out  of 
their  way  just  in  time,  squaring  his  chin  and 
holding  his  head  a  shade  higher.  The  girl  in  red 


50  The  Wishing  Moon 

was  whirled  toward  him  in  double-quick  time,  and 
he  dodged,  miscalculated  his  distance,  but  met 
the  shock  of  her  squarely,  whisking  Judith  out  of 
her  way. 

"  Good  try,  Murph,"  her  partner  called. 

Willard  regarded  the  encounter  disapprovingly 
from  the  door  of  the  gentlemen's  dressing-room, 
to  which  he  had  edged  his  way.  His  was  not  an 
expressive  countenance,  and  that  was  a  protection 
to  him  just  now.  He  was  bewildered  and  deeply 
hurt,  but  he  merely  looked  fat  and  slightly  puzzled, 
as  usual. 

"Judy  turn  you  down?"  inquired  his  friend  Mr. 
Ward,  also  watching  from  the  dressing-room  door, 
with  the  few  other  gentlemen  who  were  without 
partners  for  this  dance.  It  was  the  most  impor- 
tant dance  of  the  evening,  for  you  danced  it  with 
the  lady  of  your  choice,  or  with  nobody.  It 
cemented  new  intimacies  or  foreshadowed  the 
breaking  of  old;  settled  anew  the  continually 
agitated  question  of  "who  was  going  with  who." 

"Judy  turn  you  down?"  said  Mr.  Ward,  but 
he  meant  it  as  a  pleasantry.  Mr.  Willard  Nash 
was  not  often  turned  down,  even  at  this  early 
age.  He  was  too  eligible. 

"Rena  turn  you  down,  Ed?" 

"Yes."  Mr.  Ward  became  suddenly  confi- 
dential, and  lowered  his  voice.  "Mad.  She 


The  Wishing  Moon  51 

wanted  me  to  get  her  a  shinguard  to  mount  tin- 
types on — tintypes  of  the  team." 

"Buy  it  or  steal  it?"  inquired  Willard  sarcas- 
tically. 

"I  offered  to  buy  it,"  his  friend  confessed,  "buy 
her  a  new  pah*,  but  she  wants  one  that's  been 
used." 

"You  spoil  Rena.  You  can't  spoil  a  girl." 
They  laughed  wisely.  "  It  don't  pay." 

"Mad  with  Judy?" 

"Well — no,"  said  Willard  magnanimously.  He 
thought  quite  rapidly,  as  his  brain,  not  overworked 
at  other  times,  could  do  in  emergencies.  "My 
feet  hurt.  Pumps  slip  at  the  heel.  I've  been 
stuffing  them  out.  Judy  came  with  me,  but  I  had 
to  be  excused  for  this  dance." 

"Good  thing  for  him." 

"Who?" 

"For  Murph — for  Neil  Donovan.  They'll  all 
dance  with  him  if  she  does;  though  Judy  don't 
know  that.  She's  not  stuck  on  herself,  and  never 
will  be.  I  didn't  know  she  knew  Murph." 

"Well,  you  know  it  now,"  said  Willard  shortly, 
his  man-of-the-world  composure  failing  him. 
Judith  was  circling  nearer  now,  slender  and  de- 
sirable. He  hesitated  between  an  angry  glare 
and  a  forgiving  smile,  but  she  did  not  look  to 
see  which  he  chose.  She  whirled  quickly  by. 


52  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Smooth  little  dancer,  and  she's  no  snob. 
Judy's  all  right,"  said  Ed.  "Watch  Murph! 
He's  catching  on — never  danced  till  last  night. 
Some  of  the  fellows  taught  him.  He  never 
danced  with  a  girl  before." 

'  "If  my  feet  hurt,"  remarked  Mr.  Nash  irrele- 
vantly, and  without  the  close  attention  from  his 
friend  which  this  important  announcement  called 
for,  "I  may  not  dance  at  all  to-night." 

Willard  stopped  abruptly.  "What  do  you 
know  about  that";  a  voice  was  saying,  in  the  rear 
of  the  dressing-room;  he  stiffly  refrained  from 
turning  to  see  whose,  "Judith  is  dancing  the  first 
dance  with  Neil  Donovan!" 

Judith  was  dancing  the  first  dance  with  Neil 
Donovan.  It  was  social  history  already,  accepted 
as  such,  and  not  further  discussed,  even  by  Wil- 
lard. But  many  epoch-making  events  are  not 
even  so  much  discussed,  they  look  so  simple  on 
the  face  of  them.  We  cross  a  room,  and  change 
the  course  of  our  lives  by  crossing  it,  and  few  peo- 
ple even  observe  that  we  have  crossed  the  room. 

If  Judith  had  affected  the  course  of  her  life 
materially  by  crossing  the  room  to  the  strange 
boy,  she  did  not  seem  to  be  thinking  of  it  just  now. 
She  was  not  thinking  at  all.  She  was  only  dancing, 
following  her  partner's  erratic  course  quite  faith- 
fully, and  quite  intent  on  doing  so;  feeling  every 


The  Wishing  Moon  53 

beat  of  the  music,  and  showing  it,  pink-cheeked  and 
sparkling  eyed,  and  pleasantly  excited,  but  noth- 
ing more. 

The  wistful  and  dreamy  look  was  gone  from  her 
eyes,  and  her  half-formed  desire  for  something  to 
happen  this  evening,  something  that  had  never 
happened  before,  was  gone  from  her,  too.  She 
felt  content  with  whatever  was  going  to  happen, 
and  deeply  interested  in  it,  and  particularly  inter- 
ested in  dancing. 

They  had  danced  almost  in  silence,  rather  a 
grim  silence  at  first,  but  now  that  the  boy  could 
let  the  music  carry  him  with  it,  and  was  beginning 
to  trust  it,  too,  the  silence  was  comfortable.  But 
the  few  words  he  managed  to  say  were  worth 
listening  to  and  answering,  not  to  be  dreamed 
through  and  ignored,  like  Willard's.  His  voice 
was  not  as  she  remembered  it,  and  that  was  inter- 
esting, too,  deeply  significant,  though  she  could 
not  have  said  why.  Everything  seemed  unac- 
countably interesting  to-night. 

"I  thought  it  was  louder,"  she  said,  "or  higher — 
or  something." 

"What?" 

"Your  voice." 

It  was  quite  husky  and  low,  and  he  pronounced 
a  word  here  and  there  with  a  brogue  like  Norah's, 
only  pleasanter,  with  a  kind  of  singing  sound.  It 


54  The  Wishing  Moon 

was  never  the  word  you  expected.  You  had  to 
watch  for  it.  She  could  hear  it  now. 

"Won't  you  please  tell  me  who  you  are?  " 

"I  know  who  you  are,  and  I  know  where  you 
live." 

"Where  do  I?" 

"At  the  Falls,  and  I  know  when  you  moved 
there — five  years  ago,  or  six." 

"Six.     How  do  you  know?" 

"Oh,  I  know." 

As  you  grew  older,  and  learned  to  call  more 
boys  and  girls  in  the  school  by  name,  and  more  of 
the  clerks  in  the  shops,  you  discovered  new  people 
in  the  town  where  you  thought  you  knew  every- 
body, and  it  made  the  town  infinitely  large.  But 
this  boy  had  not  been  so  near  her,  or  she  would 
have  seen  him.  He  could  not  have  been  in  school 
with  her.  He  must  have  worked  on  a  farm  and 
studied  by  himself  with  the  grammar-school 
teacher  at  the  Falls,  and  taken  special  examina- 
tions to  enter  the  Junior  class  this  year,  as  Willard 
said  that  some  boy  at  the  Falls  was  doing.  He 
must  be  that  boy  or  Judith  would  surely  have  seen 
him. 

She  nodded  her  head  wisely.     "I  know." 

"You  know  a  lot."  In  his  soft  brogue  this 
sounded  like  the  most  complimentary  thing  that 
could  be  said. 


The  Wishing  Moon  55 

"But  you  don't  remember  me."  This  had 
troubled  her  at  first.  Now  it  seemed  like  the  most 
delicious  of  jokes,  and  they  laughed  at  it  together. 

"That  was  the  first  thing  you  said  to  me." 

"Isn't  it  queer" — Judith's  eyes  widened  and 
darkened  as  if  it  were  something  more  than  queer, 
something  far  worse — "so  queer!  I  can't  think 
what  the  first  thing  was  that  you  said  to  me." 

They  confronted  this  problem  in  silence,  staring 
at  each  other  with  wide-open  eyes.  Though  they 
were  circling  smoothly  at  last,  carried  on  by  the 
slow,  sweet  music,  so  that  they  hardly  seemed  to 
be  moving  at  all,  and  though  he  did  not  really 
move  his  head,  the  boy's  eyes  seemed  to  Judith 
to  be  coming  nearer  to  hers,  nearer  all  the  time. 
They  were  beautiful  eyes,  deep  brown,  and  very 
clear.  His  brown  hair  grew  in  a  squarish  line 
across  his  forehead,  and  waved  softly  at  the 
temples.  It  looked  as  if  he  had  brushed  it  hard 
there  to  brush  the  curl  out,  but  it  was  curliest 
there. 

"You've  got  the  brownest  eyes,"  said  Judith. 

"You've  got  the  biggest  eyes.  Won't  you  tell 
me  your  name?" 

Judith  did  not  answer.  She  looked  away  from 
the  disconcerting  brown  eyes  and  down  at  her 
hand,  against  his  shoulder,  her  own  little  hand, 
with  the  careful  manicure  and  the  dull  polish  that 


56  The  Wishing  Moon 

was  all  her  mother  permitted;  bare  of  rings,  though 
Norah  had  given  her  a  beautiful  garnet  ring  for 
Christmas.  How  shiny  his  coat-sleeve  was,  and 
her  hand  looked  unfamiliar  to  her — not  like  her 
own  at  all.  She  pressed  tighter  against  his 
shoulder  to  steady  herself. 

The  music  was  growing  quicker  and  louder, 
working  up  gradually  but  surely  into  a  breathless 
crescendo  that  meant  the  end  of  the  dance.  It 
whirled  them  dizzily  about.  The  sleepy  spell  of 
the  dance  broke  in  this  final  crash  of  noise,  and  as 
it  broke  a  sudden  panic  caught  Judith. 

What  had  she  been  saying  to  this  boy?  She 
had  never  talked  like  this  to  a  boy  before.  And 
why  was  she  dancing  with  him?  She  ought  to 
be  dancing  with  Willard — Willard,  waiting  there 
in  the  dressing-room  door  with  her  dance  order 
in  his  hand,  with  the  patient  and  puzzled  look  in 
his  eyes,  with  brick-red  colour  in  his  cheeks  from 
the  affront  she  had  subjected  him  to.  What  would 
Willard  think  of  her?  What  would  her  mother 
think?  And  who  was  this  boy?  Just  what  the 
children  had  called  him  in  taunting  screams,  on 
that  long-ago  May  night,  and  she  would  have 
liked  to  scream  it  now — a  paddy. 

Instead,  she  lifted  her  head,  no  longer  afraid 
of  the  boy's  brown  eyes,  and  said  it,  as  cruelly  as 
she  could,  in  her  soft  and  clear  little  voice: 


The  Wishing  Moon  57 

"Paddy,"  she  said;  "a  paddy  from  Paddy 
Lane." 

She  looked  defiantly  into  his  eyes,  but  they  did 
not  grow  angry.  They  only  grew  very  soft  and 
kind,  and  they  laughed  at  her.  She  wanted  to 
look  away  from  the  laughter  in  them,  but  she  could 
not  look  away  from  the  kindness.  Now  she  was 
not  angry  with  him  any  more,  but  glad  she  was 
dancing  with  him.  She  knew  she  never  wanted 
to  stop  dancing. 

"Paddy?"  He  thought  she  had  said  it  to  re- 
mind him  of  that  May  night;  he  was  remembering 
it  now.  "  Are  you  that  little  girl?  " 

"Yes." 

"The  little  girl  who  broke  the  lantern?" 

"Yes,"  said  Judith  proudly. 

"And  had  such  long  black  legs,  and  went  scut- 
tling across  the  lawn,  and  screaming  out  to  me — 
that  funny  little  girl?" 

"But  I  did  break  the  lantern,"  said  Judith. 

All  the  bravest  stories  that  she  had  made  up  in 
the  dark  to  put  herself  to  sleep  with  at  night,  all 
the  perilous  adventures  of  land  and  sea,  camp  fire 
or  pirate  ship,  began  with  the  breaking  of  that 
lantern,  and  the  boy  she  rescued  had  been  her 
companion  upon  them,  her  brushwood  boy,  her 
own  boy.  She  had  found  him  at  last,  and  he  was 
laughing — laughing  at  her. 


58  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Sure  you  did.  As  if  I  couldn't  have  broken 
away  from  a  bunch  of  fool  kids,  without  being 
doped  with  the  smell  of  kerosene,  and  yelled  at  by 
another  fool  kid.  Sure  you  broke  the  lantern. 
How  mad  I  was." 

"You  didn't  remember."  It  was  not  a  joke 
any  longer  now,  but  a  tragedy,  and  Judith  felt 
overwhelmed  by  it,  alone  in  the  world.  "You 
forgot,  and  I — remembered." 

The  brown  eyes  and  the  gray  met  in  one  last 
long  look  and  when  the  brown  eyes  saw  the  hurt 
in  Judith's,  the  laughter  died  out  of  them.  Again 
they  seemed  to  be  growing  nearer  and  nearer  to 
hers,  but  this  time  Judith  was  not  afraid, -she  was 
glad. 

"If  you  didn't  save  my  life  then,  you  did  to- 
night." It  came  in  a  husky  burst  of  confidence, 
straight  from  his  shy  boy's  heart,  very  rare  and 
very  precious.  Judith  caught  her  breath. 

"Oh,  did  I?     Did  I?" 

"Yes.  This  crowd  here  had  me  mad — crazy 
mad.  I  was  going  home.  I  was  going  to  get  off 
the  team.  I  wasn't  going  to  school  next  week,  and 
I've  worked  my  hands  off  to  get  there.  Maybe 
you  remembered  and  I  forgot,  but — I  won't  for- 
get again.  You  were  that  little  girl."  It  was  not 
a  slight  to  the  little  girl  she  used  to  be,  but  a  tribute 
to  the  girl  she  was;  that  was  what  looked  out  of  his 


The  Wishing  Moon  59 

brown  eyes  at  Judith,  and  sang  through  the  brogue 
in  his  voice. 

"You  were  that  little  girl — you!" 

"Yes,"  breathed  Judith;  "yes!" 

They  whirled  faster  and  faster.  This  was  really 
the  end  of  the  dance,  and  this  dance  could  never 
come  again.  Judith  held  tight  to  his  shiny  shoulder, 
breathless,  hurrying  to  part  with  her  secret  and 
strip  herself  bare  of  mystery  generously  in  a 
breath.  All  sorts  of  barriers  might  come  between 
them,  she  might  put  them  there  herself,  and  she 
was  quite  aware  of  it,  but  not  yet,  not  until  the 
music  stopped. 

"My  name's  Judith — Judith  Randall.  Call  me 
Judy." 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

COLONEL  EVERARD  sat  at  the  head  of 
his  dinner  table.  A  little  dinner  for 
twelve  was  well  under  way  at  the  Birches. 
Mrs.  Everard  was  confined  to  her  tower  suite  to- 
night with  one  of  the  sudden  headaches  which 
unkind  critics  held  were  likely  to  come  when  the 
Colonel  entertained.  Randolph  Sebastian,  his 
secretary,  had  superintended  the  arrangements 
for  the  dinner. 

Pink  roses,  rather  too  many  of  them,  were 
massed  on  the  big,  round  table.  Rather  too  much 
polished  silver  was  to  be  seen  on  it;  the  most  or- 
nate candlesticks  in  the  Everard  collection,  and 
a  too  complete  array  of  small,  scattered  objects, 
each  with  a  possible  but  not  an  essential  function, 
littering  a  cloth  already  complicated  by  elaborate 
inserts  of  lace.  But  the  brilliantly  lighted,  over- 
decorated  table  was  effective  enough  in  the  big, 
darkly  wainscoted  room,  a  little  island  of  light 
and  colour. 

The  room  was  characterless,  but  finely  and  gen- 
erously proportioned,  and  not  so  blatantly  new  as 
the  rest  of  the  colonel's  house  still  looked.  Against 

60 


The  Wishing  Moon  61 

the  dark  walls  the  pale-coloured  gowns  around 
the  table  were  charming.  Indeed,  most  of  the 
gowns  were  designed  for  this  setting. 

For  there  were  no  outsiders  among  the  Col- 
onel's guests  to-night.  Sometimes  there  were 
distinguished  outsiders,  politicians  and  other  big 
men,  diverted  from  triumphant  tours  through 
larger  centres  by  the  Colonel's  influence,  and  by  his 
courtesy  exhibited  to  Green  River  after  they  had 
dined,  or  bigger  men  still,  whose  comings  and  go- 
ings the  public  press  was  not  permitted  to  chron- 
icle. Sometimes,  too,  there  were  outsiders  on  pro- 
bation, the  outer  fringe  of  Green  River  society, 
admitted  to  formal  functions,  and  hoping  in  vain 
to  penetrate  to  intimate  ones;  ladies  flustered  and 
flattered,  gentlemen  sulky  but  flattered,  conscious 
that  each  appearance  here  might  be  their  last,  and 
trying  to  seem  indifferent  to  the  fact. 

But  this  was  the  Colonel's  inner  circle,  gathered 
by  telephone  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice,  as  they 
so  often  were.  No  course  that  the  chef  had  con- 
tributed to  the  rather  too  elaborate  menu  was  new 
to  them.  The  Pol  Roger  which  the  big  English 
butler  was  just  starting  on  his  second  round  was 
of  the  vintage  year  usually  to  be  found  on  the 
Colonel's  wine  list,  and  on  most  intelligently 
supervised  wine  lists.  A  dinner  for  twelve,  like 
plenty  of  little  dinners  elsewhere,  no  more  correct 


62  The  Wishing  Moon 

and  no  less,  but  it  had  this  to  distinguish  it;  it  was 
being  served  in  Green  River. 

Served  complete  from  hors-d'oeuvres  to  liqueurs, 
in  a  New  England  town  where  high  tea  had  been 
the  fashion  not  ten  years  ago,  and  church  suppers 
were  still  important  occasions — where  you  were 
rich  on  five  thousand  a  year,  and  there  were  not  a 
dozen  capitalists  secure  of  so  much,  where  a  second 
maid  was  an  object  of  pride,  and  there  was  no 
butler  except  the  Colonel's.  And  he  had  imported 
this  butler  and  his  chef  and  his  wines,  but  not  his 
guests;  they  were  quite  as  impressive,  quite  able 
.to  appreciate  his  hospitality,  if  not  to  return  it  in 
kind,  and  they  were  all  but  one  native  products  of 
Green  River. 

The  youngest  guest  was  eating  mushrooms 
sous  cloche  in  contented  silence  at  the  Colonel's 
left.  The  scene  was  not  new  to  her.  She  could 
not  remember  her  first  party  here;  she  was  prob- 
ably the  only  person  in  Green  River  who  could 
pass  over  that  momentous  occasion  so  lightly. 
She  had  grown  up  as  the  only  child  in  the  inner 
circle.  She  had  been  privileged  to  excuse  herself, 
when  the  formal  succession  of  courses  at  some 
holiday  function  was  too  much  for  her,  and  read 
fairy  tales  on  a  cushion  by  the  library  fire,  out  of 
the  fat,  purple  edition  de  luxe  of  the  "Arabian 
Nights"  that  was  always  waiting  for  her  there. 


The  Wishing  Moon  63 

Though  her  white  ruffled  skirts  had  grown  long 
now,  and  her  silvery  gold  braids  were  pinned  up, 
and  she  was  allowed  to  fill  an  empty  place  at  the 
Colonel's  table  whenever  he  asked  her,  if  not 
quite  on  his  regular  dinner  list  yet,  Judith  was  not 
much  changed  from  that  wide-eyed  child,  and 
to-night  her  eyes  looked  sleepy  and  soft,  as  if  she 
had  serious  thoughts  of  the  cushion  by  the  fire  and 
the  fairy  book  still. 

The  scene  was  not  new,  but  it  kept  a  fascination 
for  her,  like  a  transformation  scene  in  a  pan- 
tomime. Mr.  J.  Cleveland  Kent,  the  manager  of 
the  shoe  factory,  who  had  taken  her  in  to  dinner, 
had  been  leaning  out  of  a  factory  window  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  his  black  hair  tumbled,  and  badly 
in  need  of  a  shave,  when  she  passed  on  her  way 
home  from  school.  He  looked  mysterious  and 
interesting  in  a  dinner  coat,  like  her  idea  of  an 
Italian  nobleman. 

When  Judith  knocked  at  the  kitchen  door  to 
deliver  a  note,  Mrs.  Theodore  Burr,  in  a  pink  cook- 
ing apron,  corsetless,  and  with  her  beautiful  yel- 
low hair  in  patent  curlers,  had  been  blackening 
the  kitchen  stove,  and  quarrelling  with  the  furnace 
man  about  an  overcharge  of  fifty  cents  on  his 
monthly  bill.  The  Burrs  had  no  maid.  Theodore 
Burr  had  been  assisting  Judge  Saxon  ever  since 
he  passed  his  bar  examinations,  but  he  was  not 


64  The  Wishing  Moon 

admitted  to  partnership  yet.  This  was  beginning 
to  make  gossip,  for  he  worked  hard.  He  had 
broken  his  dinner  engagement  to-night,  as  he 
often  did,  to  stay  at  home  and  work.  Randolph 
Sebastian,  the  secretary,  with  the  queer,  hybrid 
foreign  name,  and  thin  face  and  ingratiating  brown 
eyes,  had  his  place  at  the  table. 

Mrs.  Burr,  stately  and  slender  now  in  jetted 
black,  the  lowest  cut  gown  in  the  room,  her  yellow 
hair  fluffing  and  flaring  into  an  unbelievable  num- 
ber of  well-filled-out  puffs,  was  chattering  to  the 
Colonel  in  a  low  voice,  so  that  Judith  could  not 
understand,  and  breaking  into  French  at  inter- 
vals— Green  River  High  School  French,  but  she 
spoke  it  with  an  air,  narrowing  her  blue-gray 
eyes  after  an  alluring  fashion  she  had  and  laughing 
her  full-toned  laugh.  She  was  a  full-blown,  em- 
phatic creature,  though  she  had  been  married  only 
three  years,  and  was  Lil  Gaynpr  still  to  half  the 
town. 

Auburn-haired  little  Mrs.  Kent  had  been  lying 
down  all  the  afternoon,  as  her  disapproving  do- 
mestic had  informed  any  one  who  inquired  at  the 
door  in  a  shrill  voice  that  did  not  promote  repose. 
She  was  very  piquant  and  enticing  now,  with  her 
bright,  slanting  hazel  eyes,  and  a  contagious 
laugh,  but  her  dinner  partner,  Judith's  father,  was 
tired  and  hard  to  amuse.  He  looked  very  boy- 


The  Wishing  Moon  65 

ish  when  he  was  tired;  his  blue  eyes  looked  large 
and  pathetic. 

The  other  two  young  women  and  Judith's 
mother,  whose  dark,  low-browed  Madonna  beauty 
was  gracious  and  fresh  to-night,  set  off  by  her 
clear-blue  gown,  with  a  gardenia  caught  in  her 
sheer,  white  scarf,  deserved  the  Honourable 
Joseph  Grant's  flowery  name  for  them,  the  Three 
Graces. 

Before  the  Colonel's  time  and  Judith's  the  Hon- 
ourable Joe  had  been  the  most  important  man  in 
Green  River,  and  in  evening  things,  and  after  a 
properly  concocted  cocktail  he  still  looked  it, 
florid  and  portly  and  well  set-up,  with  a  big  voice 
that  could  still  sound  hearty  though  it  rang  rather 
empty  and  hollow  sometimes.  He  looked  ten 
years  younger  than  his  old  friend,  Judge  Saxon. 
The  Judge's  coat  was  getting  shiny  at  the  seams, 
and — this  appeared  even  more  unfortunate  to 
Judith — he  was  in  the  habit  of  pointing  out  that 
it  was  shiny,  and  without  embarrassment.  Mrs. 
Saxon's  pearl-gray  satin  was  of  excellent  quality, 
but  of  last  year's  cut,  and  the  modest  neck  was 
filled  in  with  the  net  guimpe  which  she  affected 
at  informal  dinners.  The  Saxons  were  not  quite 
in  the  picture,  but  they  were  always  very  kind  to 
Judith. 

And  if  they  were  not  in  the  picture,  Mrs.  Joseph 


66  The  Wishing  Moon 

Grant,  certainly  not  the  youngest  woman  in  the 
room,  though  she  was  not  the  oldest,  occupied  the 
centre  of  it. 

She  was  like  the  picture  of  the  beautiful  princess 
on  the  hill  of  glass,  in  a  book  of  Judith's,  and  be- 
sides, she  had  once  been  a  real  debutante,  of  the 
kind  that  Judith  liked  to  read  about  in  novels, 
before  the  Honourable  Joe  brought  her  from 
Boston  to  Green  River.  Judith  liked  to  look 
at  her  better  than  any  one  here  except  Colonel 
Everard. 

"Cosmopolitan — ten  years  ahead  of  Wells,  or 
any  town  in  your  state;  real  give  and  take  in  the 
table  talk;  really  pretty  women;  the  same  little 
group  of  people  rubbing  wits  against  each  other 
day  after  day  and  getting  them  sharpened  instead 
of  dulled  by  it;  a  concentrated,  pocket  edition  of  a 
social  life,  but  complete — nothing  provincial  about 
it,"  a  very  distinguished  outsider  had  said  after 
his  last  week-end  with  the  Colonel. 

But  he  was  fresh  from  a  visit  to  the  state  capital, 
the  most  provincial  city  in  the  state  when  the  leg- 
islature was  not  in  session;  also  he  had  a  known 
weakness  for  pretty  women.  Green  River  did 
not  admire  the  Colonel's  circle  so  unreservedly, 
but  Green  River  was  jealous.  Whatever  you 
thought  of  it,  it  was  made  of  fixed  and  unpromising 
material,  and  making  it  was  no  mean  achieve- 


The  Wishing  Moon  67 

ment,  and  the  man  at  the  head  of  the  table  looked 
capable  of  it,  and  of  bigger  things. 

The  Colonel  was  a  big  man  and  a  public  char- 
acter, and  as  with  many  bigger  men,  you  could 
divide  the  facts  of  his  life  into  two  classes:  what 
everybody  knew  and  what  nobody  knew.  If 
the  known  facts  were  not  the  most  dramatic  ones, 
they  were  dramatic  enough.  He  was  sixty  now. 
At  fifteen  he  had  been  a  student  in  a  small  theo- 
logical seminary,  working  for  his  board  on  his 
uncle's  farm,  and  engaged  to  the  teacher  of  the 
district  school,  who  helped  him  with  his  Greek  at 
night.  He  gave  up  the  ministry  for  the  law,  used 
his  law  practice  as  a  stepping-stone  into  state 
politics,  climbed  gradually  into  national  politics, 
built  up  a  fortune  somehow — these  were  the  days 
of  big  graft — married  for  money  and  got  an  assured 
position  in  Washington  society  thrown  in,  and 
soon  after  his  marriage  chose  Green  River  as  a 
basis  of  operations,  spending  a  winter  month  in 
Washington  which  later  lengthened  to  three,  os- 
tensibly for  the  sake  of  his  wife's  health.  The 
title  of  Colonel  came  from  serving  on  the  Governor's 
staff  in  an  uneventful  year.  He  had  held  no  very 
important  office,  but  his  importance  to  his  party 
in  state  and  national  politics  was  not  to  be  meas- 
ured by  that. 

White  haired,  slightly  built,  managing  with  per- 


68  The  Wishing  Moon 

fectly  apparent  tricks  of  carriage  and  dress  to 
look  taller  than  he  was,  he  was  the  effective  figure 
in  this  rather  unusually  good-looking  group  of 
people.  Just  now  he  was  lighting  a  fresh  cigarette 
for  Mrs.  Burr  so  gracefully  that  even  Judge  Saxon 
must  enjoy  watching,  so  Judith  thought,  though 
there  was  a  tradition  that  he  did  not  like  women 
to  smoke.  Shocking  the  Judge  was  one  of  their 
favourite  games  here.  It  was  only  a  game.  Of 
course  they  could  never  shock  anybody.  They 
were  quite  harmless  people,  too  grown  up  to  be 
very  interesting,  but  almost  always  kind,  and  al- 
ways gay. 

The  Colonel's  profile  was  really  beautiful  through 
the  curling,  bluish  smoke,  and  Judith  liked  his 
quick,  flashing  smile.  He  turned  now  and  smiled 
at  Judith.  Her  own  smile  was  charming,  a  faint, 
hah5  smile,  that  never  knew  whether  to  turn  into  a 
real  smile  or  to  go  away  and  not  come  again,  but 
was  always  just  on  the  point  of  deciding. 

"Is  our  debutante  bored?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  was  just  thinking.     No." 

"She's  blushing.     Look  at  her." 

"Yes,  look  at  a  real  one.  Do  you  good,  Lil," 
agreed  the  Judge,  and  Mrs.  Burr  rubbed  a  pink 
cheek  with  her  table  napkin,  exhibited  it  daintily, 
and  laughed. 

"Rose-white  youth!    But  she  doth  protest  too 


TJie  Wishing  Moon  69 

much."  The  Honourable  Joe  was  fond  of  quota- 
tions, and  often  tried  to  make  his  remarks  sound 
like  them,  when  he  could  not  recall  appropriate 
ones,  raising  a  solemn  fat  finger  to  emphasize 
them:  "The  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

"Wrong,  wrong  thoughts,"  supplied  Randolph 
Sebastian,  so  gravely  that  the  Honourable  Joe 
accepted  the  amendment,  and  looked  worried,  as 
only  the  thought  of  losing  his  grip  on  Bartlett's 
"Familiar  Quotations"  could  worry  him  at  the  end 
of  a  perfect  meal. 

"Wrong  thought?"  he  repeated,  in  a  puzzled 
voice. 

"Thinking's  barred  here.  What's  the  penalty, 
Judge?" 

"You  aren't  likely  to  get  it  inflicted  on  you,  so 
I  won't  tell  you,  Lil." 

"No,  I  don't  think;  I  act,"  Mrs.  Burr  admitted 
cheerfully.  She  always  became  a  shade  more 
cheerful  just  when  you  expected  her  to  lose  her 
temper. 

"How  true  that  is,"  observed  Mr.  Sebastian 
gently. 

"Ranny!" 

"Didn't  you  play  auction  with  me  last  night? 
We're  out  just 

"Don't   tell   me.     I   can't   think   in   anything 


70  The  Wishing  Moon 

beyond  three  figures.  Ted's  doing  higher  mathe- 
matics over  it.  That's  why  he's  home,  really. 
I'll  play  with  you  again  to-night,  for  your  sins." 

"For  my  sins!"  He  made  melancholy  eyes,  as 
if  he  were  really  confessing  them.  Mr.  Sebastian 
always  pretended  a  deep  devotion  to  Mrs.  Burr. 
Judith  thought  it  was  one  of  the  silliest  of  their 
games. 

"But  what  was  Judy  thinking  about?"  de- 
manded Mrs.  Grant,  in  the  sweet,  indifferent  voice 
that  always  made  itself  heard. 

"She  met  a  fairy  prince  at  the  ball  last  night. 
They  are  still  to  be  met — at  balls." 

"You'd  meet  one  anywhere  he  made  a  date, 
wouldn't  you,  Edith  Kent?  "  said  the  Judge  rudely. 
"Give  Miss  Judy  a  penny  for  her  thoughts,  if 
you  want  them,  Everard.  You've  got  to  pay 
sometimes,  you  know — even  you." 

"Don't  commercialize  her  too  young,"  said  Mr. 
Sebastian  smoothly.  "Though,  on  the  whole — 
can  you  commercialize  them  too  young?" 

"Judith,  what  were  you  thinking  about?"  the 
Colonel  interrupted,  rather  quickly,  turning  every 
one's  eyes  upon  her  at  once,  as  he  could  with  a 
word. 

Judith  met  them  confidently — amused,  curious 
eyes,  but  all  friendly  and  gay.  They  talked  a 
great  deal  of  nonsense  here,  but  it  did  not  irritate 


The  Wishing  Moon  71 

her,  as  it  did  her  friend  Judge  Saxon,  though  she 
was  not  always  amused,  and  could  not  always 
understand.  They  never  tried  to  shock  her. 
She  was  sorry  for  the  Judge.  He  was  not  at  home 
with  these  gay  and  good-natured  people,  and  it 
was  so  easy  to  be. 

She  tipped  her  head  backward  in  deliberate 
imitation  of  Edith  Kent,  whom  she  admired,  half 
closed  her  eyes,  like  Lillian  Burr,  whom  she  admired 
still  more,  gazed  up  at  the  Colonel,  and  said,  in  her 
clear  little  voice : 

"I  was  thinking  about  you." 

"That's  the  answer,"  said  Mr.  Kent,  and  re- 
warded it  with  a  lump  of  sugar  dipped  in  his 
apricot  brandy. 

"For  an  ingenue?"  said  Mrs.  Burr,  very  sweetly 
indeed. 

"  'She's  getting  older  every  day,' "  hummed  Mrs. 
Kent,  in  her  charming,  throaty  contralto. 

But  Judge  Saxon  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose 
abruptly. 

"I've  had  dinner  enough,"  he  said,  "and  so  have 
you,  Miss  Judy." 

"We  all  have,  Hugh,"  said  the  Colonel  quickly, 
and  rose,  too,  and  slipped  an  intimate  hand 
through  his  arm.  "Run  along,  children!  Hugh, 
about  that  Brady  matter " 

Judge  Saxon  submitted  sulkily,  but  was  laugh- 


72  The  Wishing  Moon 

ing  companionably  with  the  Colonel  by  the  time 
they  all  reached  the  library. 

Judith  never  admired  the  Colonel  more  than 
when  he  was  managing  Judge  Saxon  in  a  sulky 
mood.  And  she  never  admired  the  Colonel  and 
his  friends  more  than  she  did  in  the  lazy  intimate 
hour  here  before  the  cards  began. 

The  room  was  long  and  high,  and  too  narrow; 
unfriendly,  as  only  a  room  that  is  both  badly  pro- 
portioned and  unusually  large  can  be,  but  you 
forgot  this  in  the  softening  glow  of  candles  and 
rose-shaded  lights.  You  forgot,  too,  that  you  were 
an  exile  from  your  own  generation,  among  elders 
who  bored  you,  though  you  were  subtly  flattered 
to  be  among  them.  Safe  on  a  high  window-bench 
in  the  most  remote  window,  entirely  your  own, 
since  the  architect  had  not  designed  it  to  be  sat 
on,  and  nobody  else  took  the  trouble  to  climb  up, 
it  was  so  much  pleasanter  to  watch  these  people 
than  to  talk  to  them;  they  had  such  pretty  clothes, 
and  wore  them  so  well,  and  made  such  effective, 
changing  pictures  of  themselves  in  the  big  room. 

Sometimes  they  amused  themselves  with  the 
parlour  tricks  that  they  had  so  many  of,  and  some- 
times they  drifted  in  and  out  in  groups  of  two  and 
three,  to  more  intimate  parts  of  the  house:  the 
smoking-room,  or  Mrs.  Everard's  suite,  if  she 
was  well,  or  out  through  the  French  windows, 


The  Wishing  Moon  73 

across  the  broad,  glassed-in  veranda  that  ran  the 
length  of  the  room  and  darkened  it  unpleasantly  by 
day,  into  the  Colonel's  rose  garden.  It  was  warm 
enough  for  that  to-night,  and  a  yellow,  September 
moon  showed  invitingly  through  the  windows. 
Mrs.  Grant,  who  liked  to  be  alone,  as  Judith 
could  quite  understand,  since  she  had  to  listen  to 
the  Honourable  Joe's  big  voice  so  much  of  the 
time,  was  slipping  out  through  a  window  now, 
taking  the  coat  that  Mr.  Sebastian  brought  her, 
but  refusing  to  let  him  go  with  her. 

He  went  to  the  piano,  ran  his  thin,  flexible 
brown  fingers  over  the  keys,  struck  into  a  Spanish 
serenade,  and  sang  a  verse  of  it  in  his  brilliant  but 
tricky  tenor,  with  his  languishing  eyes  upon  Mrs. 
Burr. 

"Ranny,  do  you  want  to  tell  the  whole  world  of 
our  love?  You  terrify  me,"  she  said,  and  took 
refuge  on  one  arm  of  the  Colonel's  chair.  Judith's 
mother,  protesting  that  she  needed  a  chaperon, 
promptly  took  possession  of  the  other  arm,  dis- 
posing her  blue,  trailing  skirts  demurely,  and 
looking  more  Madonna-like  than  ever  through 
the  cloudy  smoke  of  a  belated  cigarette.  The 
others  made  themselves  equally  comfortable,  all 
but  Judge  Saxon,  who  had  ceased  to  advertise 
the  fact  that  he  was  not. 

"Smile  at  me,"  Mrs.  Kent  begged,  hovering 


74  The  Wishing  Moon 

over  his  chair;  "I'm  going  to  sing  by  and  by,  and 
I  need  it.  Do  smile!  If  you  don't,  I'm  going 
to  kiss  you,  Judge." 

"Go  as  far  as  you  like,  but  be  sure  how  far 
you  like  to  go,  Edith,"  said  the  Judge  quietly. 
She  flushed,  and  turned  away  abruptly,  playing 
with  a  pile  of  songs. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  lullaby.  Our  youngest 
seems  to  need  it." 

"Not  in  your  line,  are  they?"  said  Sebastian, 
and  began  to  improvise  one,  while  Judith,  in  her 
corner,  closed  her  eyes  contentedly.  Whether  there 
was  any  truth  or  not  in  the  report  that  he  had 
been  playing  a  ramshackle  piano  in  an  East  Side  res- 
taurant in  New  York  when  the  Colonel  picked  him 
up,  Sebastian  could  do  charming  things  with  quite 
simple  little  tunes,  if  you  did  not  inquire  into  prob- 
lems of  harmony  and  counterpoint  too  closely. 
He  was  doing  them  now,  weaving  odds  and  ends 
of  familiar  tunes,  rather  scapegrace  and  thin, 
into  a  lovely,  reassuring  whole,  that  made  you 
feel  rested  and  safe.  Judith,  making  herself 
comfortable  against  a  stiff  and  unwieldy  Arts 
and  Crafts  sort  of  cushion,  as  long  experience  had 
taught  her  to,  listened,  smiling. 

She  had  no  idea  what  a  unique  position  she  was 
occupying  there.  Judge  Saxon  grumbled  and 
scolded,  but  he  was  part  of  the  group  in  the  room. 


The  Wishing  Moon  75 

He  had  grown  into  it,  and  belonged  to  them,  as 
he  might  have  belonged  to  an  uncongenial  family. 
The  Colonel's  distinguished  guests  saw  them  only 
on  their  best  behaviour.  Their  local  critics  never 
penetrated  here  at  all.  Judith  was  the  only  out- 
sider who  did,  and  she  had  besides  the  irrevocable 
right  of  youth  to  pronounce  judgment  upon  those 
who  have  prepared  the  world  for  it  to  occupy. 
She  was  their  only  licensed  critic.  What  did  she 
think  of  them?  Her  blond  head  drooped  sleep- 
ily. She  did  not  look  disposed  to  say. 

Sebastian  played  on,  drifting  into  something 
sophisticated,  with  a  suggestion  of  waltz  rhythms 
running  through  it.  There  was  a  stir  of  move- 
ment in  the  room,  and  the  sound  of  windows  open- 
ing and  shutting,  once,  and  then  again.  Judith 
did  not  turn  her  head  to  see  who  had  gone  out. 
She  was  too  comfortable.  It  was  strange  that  he 
could  make  you  so  comfortable  with  his  music, 
when  he  made  you  so  uncomfortable  if  you  talked 
to  him,  watching  you  so  closely  with  his  queer, 
bright  eyes. 

He  stopped  abruptly,  with  a  big,  crashing  dis- 
cord, and  Judith  rubbed  her  eyes  and  sat  up. 
Mrs.  Kent  was  going  to  sing  now.  She  tossed 
some  music  to  him. 

"That's  over  your  head,"  she  said;  "over  all 
your  heads;  better  put  me  up  there,  too,  Cleve. 


76  The  Wishing  Moon 

Besides,  I  want  to  dance.  That  table  will  do." 
She  cleared  it  unceremoniously,  with  her  hus- 
band's help,  and  established  herself  there,  poised 
motionless,  through  the  introductory  bars  of  the 
song,  her  sleepy  eyes  wide  awake  now,  and  a 
red  rose  from  a  bowl  on  the  table  caught  between 
her  teeth. 

Quietly,  always  careful  to  avoid  the  reputation 
of  being  shocked,  like  the  Judge,  Judith  slipped 
down  from  her  perch,  and  across  the  room,  and 
out  through  the  window. 

"Please  keep  my  folks  from  kickin'; 
Grab  me  while  I'm  a  chicken, 
I'm  getting  older  every  day." 

Mrs.  Kent's  fresh  voice  was  urging,  as  Judith 
tiptoed  across  the  veranda. 

The  rowdy  words  of  her  little  songs  and  the 
demure  plaintiveness  of  Mrs.  Kent's  voice  made 
an  effective  contrast.  It  amused  Judith  as  much 
as  any  one,  and  she  liked  to  laugh,  but  she  liked 
better  to  cry,  and  if  you  could  not  hear  the  words, 
Mrs.  Kent's  voice  made  you  cry;  big,  luxurious 
tears,  that  stood  in  your  eyes  and  did  not  fall. 
As  she  found  her  way  across  the  lawn,  among  the 
elaborate  flower-beds,  the  voice  followed  her,  mellow 
and  sweet.  It  had  never  sounded  so  sweet  before. 
Everything  sweet  in  the  world  was  sweeter  to-night. 


The  Wishing  Moon  77 

At  the  edge  of  the  lawn  Judith  paused.  Ahead 
of  her  three  marble  steps,  flanked  by  urns  filled 
with  ivy,  glaring  things  in  the  daytime  but  glim- 
mering shadowy  white  and  alluring  now,  led  up 
the  terrace  to  the  rose  garden;  a  fairy  place,  far 
from  the  world,  so  hedged  in  and  shadowed  by 
trees  that  it  was  dark  even  by  moonlight,  entered 
through  an  old-fashioned  trellised  arbour,  that 
was  so  mysterious  and  dark,  she  liked  it  almost 
as  well  now  when  the  rambler  roses  were  not  in 
flower. 

When  she  left  the  room  her  mother  had  been 
sitting  in  Colonel  Everard's  chair,  she  seemed  to 
remember,  and  the  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Burr  were 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  whole  room  looked 
emptier,  though  she  did  not  know  who  else  was 
missing.  But  there  were  two  people  now  in  the 
rose  arbour.  She  could  just  hear  their  voices, 
low,  with  long  silences  between. 

She  wanted  the  place  to  herself.  She  stood  still, 
hoping  that  they  would  go.  There  was  a  path 
into  the  woods  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  gar- 
den: the  Colonel's  bare,  semicultivated  woods, 
combed  clean  of  underbrush,  but  you  did  not  miss 
it  at  night.  The  woods  were  full  of  adventure, 
but  the  garden  was  better  to  dream  in,  and 
Judith  had  a  great  deal  to  dream  about. 

The  lighted  house  looked  quite  small  and  far 


78  The  Wishing  Moon 

away  across  the  wide,  moonlit  lawn.  They  had 
stopped  singing,  and  the  laughter  that  followed 
the  song  did  not  sound  so  clear  as  the  music; 
you  could  just  hear  it.  Presently  you  could  hear 
nothing,  and  it  was  quiet  in  the  rose  arbour,  too. 
She  waited  until  she  was  sure,  standing  quite  still 
at  the  edge  of  the  dark  enclosure,  not  a  rufflle 
of  her  white  dress  fluttering,  very  slender  and 
small  against  the  dark  of  the  leaves.  Then  she 
slipped  into  the  arbour. 

Through  a  fringe  of  drooping  vine  that  half  hid 
the  picture,  she  could  see  the  garden,  empty  and 
dimly  moonlit,  with  the  marble  benches  faintly 
white.  She  hurried  through,  pushed  a  trailing 
vine  aside,  then  dropped  it  and  shrank  back  under 
the  trellis. 

The  garden  was  empty.  But  across  it,  just  at 
the  entrance  of  the  wood  path,  she  saw  a  man  and 
a  woman.  At  first  she  took  the  two  figures  for 
one,  they  were  standing  so  closely  embraced. 
She  could  not  see  their  faces,  only  the  two  dark 
figures  standing  there  like  one.  They  stood  still  a 
long  time.  They  might  have  been  lovers  in  a 
picture,  only  you  could  not  paint  pictures  of 
darkly  clothed,  ungraceful,  shapeless  people.  Fin- 
ally they  moved,  the  man  turning  suddenly,  slip- 
ping an  arm  higher  around  the  woman's  shoulders, 
and  putting  his  face  down  to  hers. 


The  Wishing  Moon  79 

Then  he  drew  her  into  the  wood  path,  and  they 
passed  down  it  out  of  sight.  Judith  did  not  know 
who  the  woman  was,  but  the  man  was  Colonel 
Everard.  And  they  had  kissed  each  other. 

Now  they  were  gone.  Judith  drew  a  deep  breath 
of  relief  and  stepped  out  into  the  enclosure,  pacing 
across  it  with  slow  steps,  possessing  it  for  her  own 
and  dismissing  alien  presences.  There  was  a 
high-backed  marble  erection  between  the  benches, 
which  looked  like  a  memorial  to  the  dear  departed, 
but  was  designed  for  a  chair.  She  seated  herself 
there  deliberately,  leaning  back,  at  ease  somehow 
in  the  unfriendly  depths  of  it,  a  slender,  uncom- 
promising creature,  like  a  young  princess  sitting 
in  judgment  on  her  throne. 

They  had  kissed  each  other.  She  knew  they 
did  things  like  this,  but  now  she  had  seen  it,  which 
was  different,  and  not  very  pleasant.  But  they 
were  all  so  old.  Did  it  really  matter  whether 
they  kissed  each  other  or  not? 

"Stupid  old  things,"  said  Colonel  Everard's 
only  authorized  critic,  "I  don't  care  what  they 
do." 

Here  in  the  quiet  of  the  garden  you  were  free  to 
think  about  more  interesting  things  than  the 
Everards  or  even  fairy  princes. 

"Stupid,"  repeated  Judith  absently,  and  forgot 
the  Everards.  The  moon,  far  away  but  very  clear, 


80  The  Wishing  Moon 

shone  down  at  her  in  an  unwinking,  concentrated 
way,  as  if  it  were  shining  into  the  Colonel's  garden 
and  nowhere  else,  and  at  nobody  but  Judith.  She 
did  not  look  disconcerted  by  the  attention,  but 
stared  back  at  it  with  eyes  that  were  not  sleepy 
now,  but  very  big  and  bright — wondering,  but 
not  afraid. 

On  still  nights  like  this  you  could  just  hear  the 
church  clock  strike  from  the  garden,  but  you  could 
not  count  all  the  strokes.  Judith  listened  for  the 
sound.  It  was  early,  and  out  here,  in  the  cool, 
still  air,  it  felt  early,  though  the  time  had  passed 
so  slowly  in  the  Colonel's  sleepy  rooms.  She 
could  hear  no  music  from  the  house.  They  would 
soon  begin  to  put  out  the  bridge  tables.  There 
was  always  a  chance  that  they  would  need  her  to 
complete  a  table,  but  if  they  did  not,  the  Colonel's 
car  was  to  take  her  home  at  nine. 

And  the  Colonel's  youngest  guest  had  further 
plans  for  the  evening. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

THAT  will  be  all,  Miss? " 
"Yes,"  said  Judith,  with  unnecessary 
emphasis.     "  Oh,  yes,  indeed ! " 

The  Everards'  car  turned  and  flashed  out  of  the 
drive  and  up  the  street.  Judith  stood  still  on  the 
steps  and  watched  it,  if  a  young  lady  with  her 
breath  coming  fast  and  her  eyes  shining  bright  in 
the  dark,  and  her  heart  beating  unaccountably 
hard  can  be  said  to  be  standing  still.  One  light 
burned  forlornly  over  the  entrance  of  the  inn. 
Light  was  Judge  Saxon's  one  extravagance,  and 
plenty  of  it  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  house  next 
door,  though  it  would  be  two  before  any  one  left 
the  Everards'  but  Judith. 

The  house  before  her  was  dark,  and  the  dimly 
lighted  street  was  profoundly  still,  with  the  heavy 
and  brooding  stillness  that  comes  upon  village 
streets  after  nine  and  is  to  be  found  nowhere  else 
in  the  world.  Judith  did  not  seem  depressed  by 
it.  Somewhere  on  a  side  street  solitary  footsteps 
echoed  hollow  through  the  silence,  and  she  lis- 
tened intently,  but  they  came  no  nearer,  and 
presently  died  away.  She  fumbled  excitedly  with 

81 


82  The  Wishing  Moon 

her  key,  threw  open  the  door,  and  groped  her  way 
across  the  unlighted  hall.  She  encountered  the 
telephone  table  prematurely,  clutched  it,  and 
laughed  a  high-keyed,  strange  little  laugh. 

"Who's  there?"  demanded  a  voice  from  the 
stairs,  disconcertingly  close.  The  lights,  switched 
suddenly  on,  flashed  into  Judith's  eyes,  and  Norah 
confronted  her,  peculiarly  forbidding  in  a  dis- 
carded cape  of  Judith's  and  her  own  beflowered 
best  hat. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  she  said. 

"Who  did  you  expect?  Anybody  else?  Did — 
anybody  come?" 

"I  expected  you  a  half  hour  ago." 

"What  made  you  wait  for  me?" 

"Didn't  you  want  me  to?" 

"Nana,  of  course,  but  if  your  sister  is  sick  and 
needs  you — 

Norah  listened  to  this  irreproachable  sentiment 
suspiciously.  "It's  late  to  go,"  she  said. 

"I'll  walk  up  with  you  if  you're  frightened." 

"  You !     Can  you  unhook  that  dress  ?  " 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  bed  pretty  soon.  I'm 
awfully  sleepy." 

"There's  some  ginger  ale  on  the  ice." 

"  I  can  get  it  open  myself.     Did  anybody  come?' 

"A  boy  you  know." 

"Who?" 


The  Wishing  Moon  83 

"You're  too  anxious  to  know,  and  too  anxious  to 
get  rid  of  me.  And  you're  acting  nervous." 

"I'm  not.     I'm  just  sleepy." 

Norah,  her  grimmest  self,  as  she  always  was  just 
before  relenting,  began  to  fumble  with  her  hat- 
pins. 

"Let  me  help,  if  you  really  want  to  take  off 
your  hat.  You'll  spoil  your  beautiful  roses. 
Darling,  you  look  like  your  niece,  the  lovely  Miss 
Maggie  Brady,  in  that  hat.  Don't  take  it  off. 
You're  cross  because  you  know  where  I've  been. 
Well,  they  didn't  eat  me.  I'm  all  here.  It  was 
Willard  who  came,  and  I  don't  care  whether  you 
tell  me  or  not.  And  I  don't  want  to  get  rid  of 
you.  And  I  love  you  and  you  love  me,  and  you're 
not  cross  now." 

"If  I  love  you,  you've  got  need  of  it,  then." 
Norah  struggled  perfunctorily,  and  permitted 
herself  to  be  kissed.  "Alone  here  till  all  hours  of 
the  night,  and  Mollie  at  the  dance  at  the  Falls, 
and  your  own  mother " 

"But  you  won't  worry  about  me?  And  you'll 
go?  And  you'll  go  now,  before  it  gets  later,  so 
you  won't  be  frightened.  You'll  go  this  minute? 
And — oh,  Nana " 

Norah,  departing  by  the  front  door  because  the 
back  one  was  secured  by  an  elaborate  system  of 
locks  of  her  own  invention,  and  operated  only  by 


84  The  Wishing  Moon 

herself,  turned  to  give  Judith  a  farewell  glance  of 
grim  adoration. 

"Nana,  was  it  Willard  that  came?" 

"Yes." 

"And  not — anybody  else?" 

"No." 

Norah,  winding  herself  tightly  into  the  cape 
in  a  way  that  converted  that  traditionally  grace- 
ful garment  into  a  kind  of  armour,  disappeared 
up  the  street.  When  she  was  out  of  sight,  and 
not  until  then,  Judith  slammed  the  door  shut, 
laughing  her  tense,  excited  laugh  again. 

Then,  for  a  sleepy  young  woman,  she  began  to 
display  surprising  activity.  First  she  turned  off 
all  the  lights  in  the  hall  but  one,  in  an  opalescent 
globe,  over  the  front  door,  looked  at  the  faintly 
lighted  vestibule  with  a  calculating  eye,  and  turned 
that  out  also.  She  looked  critically  in  at  the  li- 
brary, close  curtained  for  the  night,  and  dimly  lit 
by  the  embers  of  the  wood  fire,  raked  apart,  but 
not  dead.  She  pushed  them  together  expertly, 
and  added  a  stick,  a  little  one,  which  would  soon 
burn  down  to  picturesque  embers,  like  the  rest. 
She  pulled  an  armchair  closer  to  the  fire,  pushed 
it  away  again,  and  dropped  two  cushions  on  the 
hearth  with  a  discreet  space  between. 

The  remains  of  Willard's  last  half-dozen  carna- 
tions and  a  box  of  the  eighty-cent-a-pound  candy 


The  Wishing  Moon  85 

which  only  Mr.  Edward  Ward  was  extravagant 
enough  to  prefer  to  the  generally  popular  fifty-cent 
Belle  Isle,  were  conspicuous  on  the  table,  and 
Judith  carried  them  into  the  next  room,  out  of 
sight.  Just  then  the  telephone  rang. 

Judith  started,  dropped  the  candy,  ran  into  the 
hall,  and  stood  looking  down  at  the  small  instru- 
ment resentfully,  as  if  it  were  personally  to  blame 
because  she  could  not  see  who  was  calling  her 
without  answering  and  committing  herself.  Once 
she  picked  it  up  doubtfully,  but  finally  put  it  down, 
still  ringing  intermittently,  and  hurried  into  the 
kitchen.  She  put  a  second  bottle  of  ginger  ale 
on  the  ice,  brought  a  hammered  brass  tray  and 
two  glasses  from  the  butler's  pantry,  then  sub- 
stituted a  less  ostentatious  bamboo  tray,  hesi- 
tated, and  then  put  them  all  away  again. 

Now  she  went  to  her  own  room,  turned  on  an 
unbecoming  but  searchingly  clear  toplight,  and 
frowned  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  jerked  out  her 
hairpins,  shook  out  her  soft  hair,  and  brushed  and 
pulled  at  it  with  unsteady  hands.  In  spite  of 
them,  the  pale  gold  braids,  rearranged,  looked 
almost  as  well  as  before,  if  no  better,  and  the 
heightened  colour  in  her  cheeks  was  charming. 
From  a  corner  of  her  glove-case  she  produced  the 
two  cosmetics  then  in  favour  with  the  younger 
set  in  Green  River,  burnt  matches,  and  a  bit  of 


86  The  Wishing  Moon 

scarlet  ribbon,  which  made  an  excellent  substitute 
for  rouge  if  you  moistened  it.  The  ribbon  was  an 
unhealthy  red,  and  looked  peculiarly  so  to-night. 
Judith  dropped  it  impulsively  into  her  waste- 
basket,  but  experimented  with  the  matches. 

She  made  both  her  delicately  shaded  eyebrows 
an  even  splotchy  black,  admired  the  result,  then 
suddenly  rubbed  it  off,  turned  away  from  the 
mirror  without  a  backward  glance,  and  ran  down 
into  the  hall.  The  clock  was  just  striking  ten. 

Judith  paused  for  one  breathless  minute  at  the 
library  door,  pressing  both  hands  against  her  heart, 
then  she  went  into  the  firelit  room  and  made  the 
last  and  most  important  of  her  preparations.  She 
switched  on  the  lights,  toplights  and  sidelights  and 
reading-lamp,  all  of  them,  went  to  the  middle  one 
of  the  three  front  windows,  crushed  the  curtains 
back,  and  raised  both  shades  high  to  the  top,  so 
that  the  light  in  the  room  looked  out  at  the  street 
from  this  window  from  sill  to  ceiling.  Judith 
slipped  quickly  out  of  range  of  the  window, 
dropped  down  on  one  of  the  cushions  by  the  fire, 
and  waited. 

She  had  fluttered  through  her  little  hurry  of 
preparation  excitedly,  but  now  there  was  evidence 
of  deeper  excitement  about  the  tense  quiet  of  her, 
huddled  on  her  cushion,  small  hands  clasping 
silken  knees,  and  brooding  eyes  on  the  fire.  There 


The  Wishing  Moon  87 

was  a  dignity  about  her,  too,  in  spite  of  her  childish 
pose  and  a  drooping  grace  that  was  almost  a 
woman's. 

What  she  was  waiting  for  was  slow  to  come,  but 
she  did  not  seem  disturbed  by  that.  The  hands 
of  the  clock  above  her  seemed  to  move  with 
the  unbelievable  quickness  characteristic  of  clock 
hands  when  there  is  no  other  activity  in  the  room, 
and  she  observed  them  calmly.  Soon  they  pointed 
to  the  quarter  hour,  they  passed  it.  She  looked 
faintly  worried  then.  The  telephone  rang  again; 
she  pressed  her  hands  over  her  ears  and  shut  her 
eyes  tight,  and  did  not  answer.  The  stick  on  the 
fire  burned  low  and  she  did  not  replace  it.  It 
parted  and  fell  from  the  andirons  with  a  dull  noise 
that  echoed  loudly  through  the  empty  room. 
Judith  started  and  jumped  up,  her  eyes  hard  and 
bright,  her  hands  tightly  clenched. 

She  eyed  the  clock  threateningly,  as  if  it  were 
personally  responsible  for  whatever  disappoint- 
ment she  might  be  feeling,  and  she  were  daring  it 
not  to  strike.  It  struck  half-past  ten  in  spite 
of  her.  Judith's  mouth  trembled  childishly, 
and  tears  started  to  her  eyes.  They  did  not  fall. 
Footsteps  sounded  outside.  They  turned  into  the 
drive.  Judith  stood  on  tiptoe  and  peeped  at  her- 
self in  the  mantel  mirror — her  flushed  cheeks, 
tumbled  hair,  and  sparkling  eyes.  The  steps 


88  Tlie  Wishing  Moon 

crossed  the  porch,  and  she  ran  to  the  door  and 
threw  it  open — the  length  of  the  chain,  and  no 
wider.  She  did  not  unbar  the  chain.  On  the 
threshold,  with  a  substantial  box  of  Belle  Isle 
under  his  arm,  stood  Mr.  Willard  Nash. 

Judith  regarded  Mr.  Nash  and  his  Belle  Isle 
with  disfavour. 

"You  can't  come  in,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Nash,  who  had  been  stooping  to  flick  some 
dust  from  his  boots,  straightened  guiltily.  "Why?" 

"It's  too  late." 

"I've  got  to  see  you." 

"You  do  see  me."  A  white  dress,  a  face  al- 
most as  white,  and  big,  dark  eyes  were  all  he  could 
see,  but  it  seemed  to  be  enough.  He  inserted  a 
square-toed  boot  cautiously  in  the  opening  of  the 
door. 

"I  want  to  see  you  about  something." 

"What?" 

"A  new  comic  song  for  the  quartette.  They 
won't  let  us  do  'Amos  Moss'  at  the  Lyceum  con- 
cert. That  part  about  the  red  shirt  is  vulgar. 
The  new  one's  close  harmony.  It  will  show  off 
Murph's  voice." 

"It's  too  late  now.     Go  home,  Willard." 

"But  I  brought  you  this." 

"  Go  home  and  eat  it,"  suggested  Judith. 

Willard    turned    scarlet,    swung    round,    then 


The  Wishing  Moon  89 

changed  his  mind  and  inserted  his  foot  in  the  crack 
of  the  door  again,  this  time  with  a  purposeful  air. 
He  was  to  develop  into  the  type  of  man  to  whom 
an  unpropitious  time  and  place  are  an  irresistible 
temptation  to  demand  a  show-down.  It  is  a 
type  that  goes  far,  though  it  is  not  essentially 
popular.  Judith  sighed,  then  resigned  herself. 

"Judy,  I  don't  make  you  out." 

"You  don't  have  to." 

"I  do."  Willard's  voice  was  impressive,  as 
even  a  fat  boy's  can  be  when  he  is  in  the  grip  of 
fate  and  conscious  of  it.  "I  do." 

"I'm  sorry,  Willard,  dear,"  murmured  Judith, 
with  disarming  sweetness,  but  he  was  not  to  be 
turned  from  his  purpose. 

"Judy,  are  you  going  with  me  or  not?  " 

"  Going  with  you?  " 

"Don't  be  a  snob.  What  else  can  I  call  it  but 
going  with  me?  I  don't  know  any  other  way 
to  say  it." 

"Then  don't  say  it." 

"You've  got  my  class  pin  and  I've  got  yours. 
I  know  there  isn't  anybody  else.  You  let  me  call 
and  take  you  places,  but  you  won't  let  me " 

"What?" 

Willard  looked  sheepishly  down  at  his  boots, 
then  bravely  up  at  Judith.  "Put  my  arm  round 
you  at  picnics.  Kiss  you  good-night." 


90  The  Wishing  Moon 

Judith  cut  short  this  catalogue  crisply. 

"Spoon?" 

This  word  was  forbidden  in  the  upper  circles  of 
the  Green  River  younger  set,  and  Willard  looked 
pained,  but  collected  himself. 

"We  are  the  same  as  engaged,"  he  insisted 
sturdily. 

He  had  forced  an  issue  at  last,  but  Judith  evaded 
it,  laughing  softly  in  the  dark. 

"Oh,  are  we?" 

"Aren't  we?" 

"  How  do  you  know  there  isn't  anybody  else?  " 

"Well,  you  won't  look  at  Ed,  and  Murph  don't 
count. ' '  Willard  made  this  pronouncement  lightly, 
though  the  adamantine  rules  and  impassable 
barriers  of  a  whole  social  order  were  embodied 
in  it.  "  Murph  that  you're  so  thick  with,  all  of  a 
sudden.  He's  a  bully  fellow,  all  right,  next  cap- 
tain of  the  team,  probably.  Good  thing  he's 
broken  into  the  crowd  a  little  way.  Too  bad  he's 
Irish.  Murph  don't  count." 

"No — no!"  A  sudden  and  poignant  sweet- 
ness thrilled  in  Judith's  voice.  The  tenor  of  the 
Green  River  High  School  quartette,  not  ordinarily 
sensitive  to  variations  of  tone  in  the  voices  of 
others,  could  not  ignore  it.  The  change  had  dis- 
turbed him  vaguely.  It  seemed  to  call  for  some 
comment. 


The  Wishing  Moon  91 

"Judy,  you  look  great  to-night.  .  .  .  I'd 
do  anything  for  you." 

"  Then  go  home,  Willard." 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question." 

"What  question?" 

"Don't  tease." 

"I  honestly  don't  know." 

"You  don't  hear  one  word  I'm  saying  to  you." 

Judith  laughed  guiltily.  "Then  what  makes 
you  talk  tome?" 

"Judith — are  we  the  same  as  engaged?" 

Judith  hesitated.  "Kissing  each  other  good- 
night— and  all  that — is  silly.  I  don't  want  to. 
Only  sometimes  I  want  to,  and  then  afterward  I'm 
ashamed,  and  can't  understand  why.  Willard, 
I  don't  want  to  grow  up.  I  don't  ever  want  to. 
I  want  things  to  stay  just  the  way  they  are. 
They  are— lovely .  Oh,  Willard " 

She  stopped,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  There 
had  been  a  real  appeal  in  his  earnest  young  voice, 
and  she  had  done  her  best  to  answer  it,  painfully 
thinking  out  loud,  with  her  heart  in  her  words, 
making  him  an  authentic  confidence.  But  the 
confidence  was  off  the  point,  and  he  ignored  it, 
pursuing  his  subject  with  the  concentration  which 
will  keep  his  sex  the  stronger  one,  votes  for  women 
or  no  votes  for  women. 

"Are  you  the  same  as  engaged  to  me?" 


92  The  Wishing  Moon 

"  Will  you  go  home  if  I  say  I  am?  " 

"Are  you?" 

"There  isn't  any  such  thing  as  being  the  same 
as  engaged." 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes." 

Willard,  forgetting  himself  in  the  heat  of  de- 
bate, had  withdrawn  his  foot  from  the  door.  Ju- 
dith, narrowly  on  the  watch  for  this  moment, 
now  seized  it,  shutting  him  and  his  Belle  Isle  out- 
side, and  slamming  the  door  in  his  face.  He  had 
gained  his  point,  and  would  not  linger.  She 
heard  him  ring  the  bell  once  or  twice  in  perfunc- 
tory protest,  then  put  down  his  candy  on  the 
steps. 

"Good-night,"  he  called  cheerfully,  through  the 
flimsy  barrier  of  the  pseudo-Colonial  door. 

"Good-night,  Willard— dear!" 

Judith's  voice  was  sweet,  but  indifferent,  and 
her  manner  was  indifferent,  for  a  young  lady  who 
would  have  seemed,  to  a  literal-minded  person, 
to  have  materially  affected  her  whole  future  life 
by  this  conversation.  She  did  not  watch  Willard 
go.  She  turned  and  stood  in  the  library  door, 
smiling  absently  and  humming  a  little  snatch  of 
a  waltz  tune.  It  was  eleven  now,  but  the  hour 
had  ceased  to  concern  her,  as  if  she  had  been 
watching  the  clock  for  Willard.  Presently,  as 


The  Wishing  Moon  93 

if  she  really  had,  she  tossed  the  cushions  back  on 
the  couch,  drew  the  shades  over  the  window, 
turned  off  the  lights,  and  disappeared  upstairs. 
Muffled  sounds  of  a  methodical  but  unhurried 
preparation  for  bed  drifted  faintly  down,  one  last 
ripple  of  song,  and  then  it  was  silent  there. 

It  was  very  still  in  the  library.  The  stillness  of 
the  whole  empty  house  and  the  moonless  night 
outside  seemed  to  centre  there.  The  dying  fire 
threw  out  little  spurts  of  flame  and  made  wavering 
shadows  on  the  hearth  as  if  Judith  were  still 
crouching  there.  The  embers  glowed  as  red  as 
when  she  had  been  fire-gazing,  but  they  did  not 
show  what  it  was  she  had  seen  in  the  fire.  They 
kept  her  secrets  as  safely  as  she  kept  them  herself; 
as  youth  must  keep  its  secrets,  inarticulate,  dumb, 
because  it  sees  into  the  heart  of  the  world  so 
deeply  that  if  it  were  granted  speech  it  would 
make  the  world  too  wise.  What  Judith  had  seen 
in  the  fire,  what  had  really  been  in  her  heart  when 
she  talked  to  Willard  in  the  groping  and  pitiful 
language  of  youth,  the  only  language  she  had,  the 
fire  could  not  tell,  and  perhaps  Judith  did  not 
know. 

It  was  still,  and  the  tiniest  sounds  were  exag- 
gerated :  a  board  creaking  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and  creaking  again,  the  stair-rail  creaking,  the 
ghost  of  a  faint  little  sigh;  tiny  and  intermittent 


94  The  Wishing  Moon 

sounds,  but  the  silence  became  a  listening  hush 
because  of  them:  listening  harder  and  harder. 
At  last  a  sound  broke  it:  the  doorbell,  rung  three 
times,  one  long  peal  and  two  short. 

It  was  rung  faintly,  but  loud  enough.  There 
was  a  soft  hurry  of  slippered  feet  down  the  stairs, 
and  a  slender  figure,  tall  in  straight-falling  draper- 
ies, slipped  cautiously  down  and  across  the  hall 
to  the  door,  stopped  and  stood  leaning  with  one 
ear  pressed  against  it,  silent  and  motionless, 
hardly  breathing.  The  faint  signal  was  repeated. 
Judith  did  not  move. 

There  was  one  more  ring,  a  soft  tapping,  and 
then  silence.  Judith  listened  for  a  minute,  then 
whistled  softly,  a  clear  little  signal,  one  long  and 
two  short,  like  the  signal  ring.  There  was  no 
answer.  She  pulled  frantically  at  the  chain,  got 
it  loose,  and  threw  open  the  door. 

A  boy  was  standing  on  the  steps,  a  stolid,  un- 
moving  figure,  looming  deceptively  tall  in  the  dark. 
He  did  not  step  forward  or  greet  her.  Judith 
put  out  a  groping  hand  and  caught  at  his  shoulder. 

"Is  it  you?  Oh,  I  thought  you  had  gone,"  she 
said.  "I  was  watching  for  you  upstairs." 

"I  am  going.     I  can't  come  in  so  late." 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"Then  what  made  you  watch  for  me?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  you  came." 


The  Wishing  Moon  95 

"Well,  I  did  come,  and  now  I'm  going." 

"You  walked  past  the  house  five  times." 

"  Eight."  The  boy  laughed  shortly,  and  Judith's 
soft  laugh  echoed  his.  "Oh,  what's  the  use?  I'm 
going." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  in?  " 

"No." 

"Then  what  made  you  walk  past  the  house?" 

"You  know  well  enough." 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me.  .  .  .  You  can  come 
in  just  five  minutes  if  you  want  to." 

"I-you- 

Judith  caught  her  trailing  draperies  tighter 
round  her,  conscious  that  they  were  under  obser- 
vation. "It's  not  a  kimono,  it's  a  negligee. 
And  you've  seen  my  hair  in  braids  before,  when 
I  played  basket-ball.  But  you  needn't  come  in 
unless  you  want  to." 

"I  don't." 

"You're  not  very  nice  to  me.  Willard  tried  to 
break  in.  Rena's  been  trying  to  get  me  by 
'phone,  to  stay  all  night  with  me.  You're  not 
nice  to  me  at  all." 

His  only  reply  was  a  kind  of  tortured  groan,  but 
she  seemed  content  with  it.  Her  voice  grew  com- 
pellingly  sweet. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Go  on  and  talk." 


96  Tlie  Wishing  Moon 

She  huddled  her  draperies  closer.  "I'm  too 
cold." 

"Go  to  bed  then." 

"I  won't.  If  you  don't  come  in  I  shall  stand 
here  till  mother  comes.  I'll  probably  get  pneu- 
monia." 

This  threat  evoked  no  reply. 

"Neil,"  the  name  was  said  as  only  names  are  said 
that  are  new  and  dear — not  often  used  yet,  but 
often  dreamed  over,  but  there  was  still  no  answer. 

"Neil,  I'm  awfully  cold." 

"I  don't  care." 

"Oh,  don't  you?" 

"You  know  I  do.  You  know Oh,  Ju- 
dith, won't  you  please  let  me  go?  I  don't  want  to 
come  in,  I  tell  you." 

"But  you're  coming?" 

"Yes." 

Yielding  abruptly,  he  stepped  into  the  hall 
beside  her.  Judith,  suddenly  silent,  concerned 
herself  conscientiously  with  the  chain. 

"Don't  stand  there  like  that.  I  can't  fasten 
this  if  you  do,"  she  said  breathlessly. 

"Why?" 

"  Go  into  the  library,  and  don't  light  the  lights, 
if  you're  afraid  of  pigtails." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of — anything." 

"Well— I'm    not."    With    a    reckless    laugh, 


The  Wishing  Moon  97 

which  made  this  comprehensive  challenge  to  the 
world  still  more  comprehensive,  she  followed  him 
into  the  firelit  room.  Slender  and  straight  in  soft- 
falling  white,  her  face  flushed  and  sweet,  framed 
between  silvery  gold  braids,  her  eyes  wide  and 
challenging,  she  stood  looking  at  him  across  the 
hearth. 

He  faced  her  awkwardly  but  bravely,  tall 
in  the  shadowy  room,  his  face  very  white,  his 
dark  eyes  catching  the  last  rays  of  light  from  the 
dying  fire.  The  two  did  not  move  or  speak  till 
he  gave  a  sudden,  shaken  laugh. 

"You  wanted  to  talk  to  me — talk."  He  smiled 
a  quick  flashing  smile.  Judith  drew  away  from  him 
and  he  followed.  "Now  you've  got  me  here, 
can't  you  shake  hands  with  me?  " 

"Neil,  be  careful." 

"I'm  doing  the  best  I  can,"  he  said  in  a  choked 
voice.  "  You  shouldn't  get  me  here.  You  shouldn't 
get  me  to  a  house  by  night  that's  not  open  to  me 
by  day." 

"But  it  is.  Only  they'll  never  let  me  see  you 
alone,  and  I  like  to.  I  like  to  talk  to  you.  It 
makes  me  feel — comfortable.  Isn't  it  comfortable 
here?"  Judith  paused,  overcome  by  an  unac- 
countable difficulty  with  her  breathing,  but  mas- 
tered it.  "Comfortable  and  cozy?  Aren't  you 
glad  you  came  in?" 


98  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Comfortable!"  He  laughed,  came  two  steps 
nearer  to  her,  and  stopped  stiffly.  Judith,  dis- 
posing her  soft,  silky  draperies  daintily,  observed 
him  in  silence  from  a  big  chair  which  she  had 
taken  possession  of  rather  abruptly,  faintly 
smiling. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  he  commanded. 

"Like  what?  Sit  down — over  there,  Neil. 
Isn't  it  cozy?  Willard's  got  a  new  song  that " 

"Willard!" 

"Don't  be  cross.  We — haven't  very  much 
time." 

"Judith,  where  is  this  getting  us?  We're  not 
children.  Won't  you  talk  straight  to  me?  You 
ought  to  leave  me  alone,  or  talk  straight." 

"  Please  don't  be  cross." 

"  Cross ! "  He  came  across  the  hearth  and  stood 
close  before  her,  awkward  no  longer,  but  splendid 
with  youth  in  the  firelight,  his  dark  eyes  shining. 

"You  knew  I'd  come,  no  matter  how  hard  I 
tried  not  to?" 

"Yes,"  Judith  breathed. 

"And  you  meant  to  let  me  in? " 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  you  know,  if  I  come,  if  you  let  me,  I 
can't  help — can't  help " 

"What?" 

"Oh,  Judith!"     He  dropped  on  his  knees  beside 


The  Wishing  Moon  99 

her  and  hid  his  face.  Judith  did  not  touch  the 
dark  head  that  she  could  see  dimly  in  the  shad- 
owy room,  outlined  against  her  cloudy  white,  but 
she  leaned  closer  to  it,  her  lips  parting  softly,  her 
eyes  wide  and  strange. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  help  it,"  she  breathed. 

"But  where  will  it  get  us?"  pleaded  a  muffled 
voice. 

"I  don't  care."  Her  hand  hovered  over  the 
dark  hair,  touching  it  with  the  wonderful,  blended 
awkwardness  and  adroitness  of  first  caresses. 

He  brushed  the  butterfly  touch  away  and 
raised  his  head  and  looked  long  at  her,  slipping 
both  arms  round  her  waist  and  holding  her  tight. 

"Will  you  always  say  that?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  Judith!"  Her  sweet,  flushed  face  was 
close  above  him  now,  eyes  drooping,  lips  faintly 
apart,  drawn  down  to  his  as  gently  and  inevitably 
as  tired  eyes  close  into  sleep.  "Judith,  some  day 
you'll  have  to  care." 

"Not  yet.     Neil,  don't  talk  any  more." 

"I— can't." 

"Then  kiss  me." 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

IT  WAS  winter  in  Green  River. 
The  town,  attracting  Colonel  Everard  to 
it  sixteen  years  before,  newly  prosperous, 
outgrowing  its  old  lumbering  days,  with  the  ship- 
building industry  already  a  thing  of  the  past, 
with  the  power  in  the  little  river  awaiting  develop- 
ment, money  in  the  small  but  thriving  bank,  and 
a  new  spirit  everywhere,  beyond  the  control  of 
old  leaders,  too  progressive  for  a  provincial  mag- 
nate's direction,  had  been  in  the  interesting  and 
dangerous  condition  of  a  woman  ready  for  her  next 
love  affair;  if  the  right  man  comes,  she  may  live 
happy  ever  after,  but  even  if  the  wrong  man  comes, 
a  flirtation  is  due.  Like  a  woman  again,  the  town 
showed  the  strength  of  his  hold  on  her  in  his  ab- 
sence; in  winter,  when  the  big,  unfriendly  house 
was  shuttered  and  closed,  the  ladies  of  the 
inner  circle  wore  out  their  summer  evening  gowns 
at  mild  winter  gayeties,  church  socials,  Vil- 
lage Improvement  Society  bridge  parties,  and  the 
old-fashioned  supper  parties  which  the  Nashes 
and  Larribees  and  Saxons  still  ventured  to 
give. 

100 


The  Wishing  Moon  101 

Humble  festivities  which  he  would  not  have 
honoured  with  his  presence  lacked  allurement 
because  he  was  not  in  town  and  staying  away  from 
them.  Great  matters  and  small  hung  fire  to  await 
his  deciding  vote,  from  the  list  of  books  to  be 
bought  for  the  library  to  the  chairmanship  of  the 
school  board.  Marking  time  and  waiting  for  the 
Colonel  to  come  home;  that  was  what  winter  meant 
to  most  of  Green  River,  but  not  to  Judith  Ran- 
dall. Winter  was  a  charmed  time  to  her;  the 
time  when  her  mother  did  not  care  what  she  did. 
Freedom  was  always  sweet,  but  this  winter  it 
was  sweeter  than  ever  before  to  Judith. 

She  was  never  lonely  now.  Whispering  groups 
in  the  dingy  corridor  of  the  old  schoolhouse,  or  in 
that  sacred  spot,  the  senior's  corner,  a  cluster  of 
seats  in  the  northwest  corner  of  the  assembly- 
room  devoted  by  tradition  to  secret  conclaves, 
though  not  distinguishable  from  the  rest  of  the 
seats  in  the  room  to  uninitiated  eyes,  drew  her  in 
without  question,  slipping  intimate  arms  round 
her  waist. 

Attempts  at  informal  gatherings  in  the  Randall 
drawing-room  were  failures,  chilled  by  brief  but 
devastating  invasions  of  Mrs.  Randall  with  a  too 
polite  manner  and  disapproving  eyes.  But  wher- 
ever the  crowd  drifted  after  school  hours,  Judith 
drifted,  too,  or  was  summoned  by  telephone,  by 


102  The  Wishing  Moon 

imperative  messages,  vague,  and  of  infinite  possi- 
bilities: 

"Judy,  this  is  Ed.  There'll  be  something  doing 
to-night  at  our  house.  Bring  your  new  dance 
records."  Or,  as  the  outer  fringe  of  the  younger 
set,  jealously  on  the  watch  for  snobbishness,  but 
disarmed  at  last,  claimed  her  diffidently  but  eag- 
erly, new  names  at  which  her  mother  raised  her 
eyebrows  appeared  on  her  dance  orders:  Joe 
Garland,  whose  father  kept  the  fish  market,  and 
Abie  Stern,  Junior,  the  tailor's  son.  "Is  this 
Judith  Randall?  Well,  Judith,  this  is  Joe;  Joe 
Garland.  I'm  getting  up  a  crowd  to  go  skating 
to-night,  and  have  a  rarebit  afterward.  Would 
you  care  to  come?" 

She  was  one  of  the  crowd.  Natalie,  little, 
sparkling-eyed,  and  black-haired,  with  the  freshest 
and  readiest  of  laughs,  was  more  popular,  filling 
her  dance  orders  first  and  playing  the  lead  in 
theatricals,  and  Rena  Drew  was  more  prominent, 
president  of  the  class  and  the  debating  society, 
and  the  proud  owner  of  the  strongest  voice  in 
the  school  quartette,  a  fine  big  contralto  which 
wrapped  itself  round  Judith's  small,  clear  soprano 
at  public  appearances  and  nearly  extinguished  it. 
Willard,  the  most  eligible  of  the  boys,  was  Ju- 
dith's unquestioned  property,  otherwise  nothing 
distinguished  her.  She  was  one  of  the  crowd, 


The  Wishing  Moon  103 

and  accepted  the  fact  demurely,  as  if  it  were  a 
matter  of  course,  not  a  dream  come  true.  Just 
as  discreetly  she  conducted  her  affair  with  Neil 
Donovan,  captain-elect  of  the  team,  literary  editor 
of  the  school  paper,  star  debater,  and  in  his  way  a 
creditable  conquest,  if  she  had  cared  to  claim  him 
openly. 

"Neil  danced  three  dances  with  me,"  confided 
Natalie,  in  the  hushed  whisper  appropriate  to 
the  confidences  that  were  part  of  the  ceremony 
of  spending  the  night  together  after  a  party, 
though  Natalie's  room,  with  the  old-fashioned 
feather  bed,  where  the  two  were  cuddling  together, 
was  on  the  third  story  of  the  rambling  white  house, 
and  safe  out  of  hearing. 

"Neil?" 

"Judy,  it's  too  bad  to  call  him  Murph  and 
make  fun  of  him.  The  day  he  came  into  the  store 
to  solicit  ads  for  the  Record  father  said  that  boy 
would  go  far,  if  he  had  hah*  a  chance,  but  no  boy 
had  a  chance  in  this  town,  the  way  it  is  run,  and 
no  Irish  boy  ever  did  have  a  chance.  Well,  an 
Irish  boy  is  just  as  good  as  anybody,  if  they  only 
thought  so." 

"But  they  don't." 

"Judy,  you  are  horrid  about  Neil.  You  al- 
ways are  about  any  boy  I  get  crushed  on.  Neil 
has  perfectly  beautiful  eyes,  and  he  is  so  sensi- 


104  The  Wishing  Moon 

tive.  He  kept  looking  at  you  all  through  that 
last  schottische  as  if  you  had  hurt  his  feelings. 
He  must  have  gone  home  soon  after  that.  I  didn't 
see  him  again.  You  didn't  dance  with  him 
once." 

"No." 

"Poor  boy.  And  he's  up  there  in  the  school- 
house  with  you,  hour  after  hour,  practising  quar- 
tette stuff,  and  Willard  so  crazy  about  you  he 
can't  see,  and  Rena  crazy  about  Willard " 

"Rena  can  have  Willard." 

Miss  Ward  was  not  to  be  diverted.  "Neil's 
father  did  keep  a  saloon,  but  he  died  when  Neil 
was  a  baby.  His  uncle  that  he  lives  with  keeps 
a  store  at  the  Falls,  and  that's  all  right.  His 
aunt  took  in  washing,  but  his  mother  never  did. 
Charles  Brady  does  get  drunk,  but  Maggie  drives 
him  to  it.  She's  getting  awfully  wild.  She's  a 
perfect  beauty,  though,  and  I  wish  I  had  her  hair. 
But  Charlie's  only  Neil's  second  cousin.  And 
Neil  is  so  quiet  and  pleasant,  not  like  that  Brady 
boy  that  was  in  my  sister  Lutie's  crowd;  just  as 
fascinating,  but  Neil  doesn't  take  liberties." 

"I'm  getting  sleepy,  Nat." 

"Judy,  the  way  I  feel  about  Neil,  about  Irish 
boys,  is  this:  we  can't  go  with  them  afterward, 
but  while  they're  in  school  with  us,  they  are  just 
as  good  as  we  are,  and  we  ought  to  give  them  just  as 


The  Wishing  Moon  105 

good  a  time  as  we  can.  If  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

"I  don't.     I'm  sleepy." 

"I'm  not.  I  shan't  shut  my  eyes."  But  Miss 
Ward  did  shut  them.  "Judy." 

"Well?" 

"Judy,  Abraham  Lincoln  split  rails." 

"Cheer  up.  The  Warren  Worth  Comedy  Com- 
pany is  going  to  play  at  the  Hall  next  week,  and 
Warren  Worth  has  perfectly  beautiful  eyes,  too." 

"Not  like  Neil's." 

"Go  to  sleep,  Nat." 

But  Judith  did  not  go  to  sleep  until  after  an 
hour  of  staring  wide-eyed  into  the  dark,  and  she 
did  not  confide  to  Natalie  or  any  one  what  had  hap- 
pened in  the  intermission  after  the  schottische. 

"You  act  restless,"  Willard  complained  to  her 
then.  "You  hardly  looked  at  me  all  through  the 
encore." 

"I'll  look  at  you  now,  but  get  me  some  water 
first,"  she  directed,  and  having  disposed  of  him, 
slipped  out  alone  into  the  dim  and  draughty  cor- 
ridor. Odd  Fellows'  Building,  the  centre  of  vari- 
ous business  activities  by  day,  looked  deserted 
and  forlorn  at  night,  when  the  suites  of  offices 
were  dark  and  closed,  and  the  hall  where  they 
danced,  gayly  lighted  and  tenanted,  was  a  little 
island  of  brightness  in  the  surrounding  dark. 


106  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Neil,"  Judith  called  softly,  "Neil,  where  are 
you?  I  saw  you  come  out  here.  I  know  you're 
here."  The  corridor  was  empty,  but  several 
office  doors  opened  on  it,  and  on  one  of  them  she 
saw  Charlie  Brady's  name.  She  knocked  at  it. 
"You're  in  there.  I  know  you  are.  Let  me  in." 
She  tried  the  door,  found  it  unlocked,  and  opened 
it.  The  room  was  dark,  faintly  lighted  by  the 
street  lamps  outside  the  one  uncurtained  window, 
where  he  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  huddled 
in  a  discouraged  heap  over  Charlie  Brady's 
desk.  Judith  came  and  perched  on  it  triumph- 
antly. 

"Running  away?"  she  said. 

"It's  all  I'm  good  for." 

"Look  at  me." 

"I  thought  you  hadn't  any  dances  free." 

"I  haven't.     This  is  Willard's." 

"Go  back  to  Willard.  .  .  .  What  did  you 
come  here  for?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Don't  you?"  He  looked  up  now,  with  magic 
in  his  eyes  and  voice,  the  strange  magic  that  came 
and  went,  and  when  it  left  him  Judith  could 
never  believe  it  would  come  again.  But  it  was 
here.  With  a  little  sigh  she  slipped  off  the  desk 
and  into  the  arms  he  held  out  for  her,  closing  her 
eyes. 


The  Wishing  Moon  107 

"I  didn't  want  to  dance  with  you,"  she  whis- 
pered; "not  with  all  those  lights,  and  before  those 
people." 

"No,  dear." 

"I  can't  stay  very  long.     They'd  miss  me." 

"I'll  let  you  go  when  you  want  to." 

"I  don't  want  to.  I  feel  so  comfortable — all 
sleepy,  but  so  wide-awake.  I  never  want  to 
go." 

Judith,  remembering  this  moment  until  she 
carried  it  into  her  dreams  with  her,  could  not  have 
shared  it  with  Natalie.  It  was  a  dream  already, 
to  be  wondered  at  and  forgotten  by  daylight,  as 
she  stared  across  the  schoolroom  at  Neil,  not  a 
romantic  figure  at  all  with  his  ill-fitting  suit  and 
his  tumbled  hair;  forgotten  until  the  next  moment 
like  it  came — next  in  a  lengthening  series  of  dream 
pictures,  of  moonlight  and  candlelight  and  faintly 
heard  music,  a  secret  too  sweet  to  share,  a  hidden 
treasure  of  dreams. 

Certain  pictures  stood  out  clearest.  In  one, 
she  was  skating  with  Neil.  Willard  was  giving  a 
chowder  party  at  the  Hiawatha  Club.  This 
imposing  name  belonged  to  a  rough  one-room 
camp  with  a  kitchen  in  a  lean-to  and  a  row  of 
bunks  in  the  loft  above,  and  a  giant  chimney,  with 
a  crackling  blaze  of  fire  to  combat  the  bleakness 
of  the  view  through  the  uncurtained  windows — 


108  The  Wishing  Moon 

Mirror  Lake.  It  was  a  failure  as  a  mirror  that 
day,  veiled  with  snow,  and  the  white  birches  fring- 
ing it  showed  bare  and  cold  among  the  warm  green 
of  spruce  and  pine. 

The  camp  was  built  and  owned  and  the  canoes 
and  iceboats  kept  in  repair  in  the  boathouse,  and 
the  cook  maintained  and  replaced  when  he  left 
from  loneliness,  all  by  a  syndicate  with  Judge 
Saxon  as  president.  Forming  it  was  one  of  the 
last  independent  social  activities  of  the  town  be- 
fore the  Colonel  took  charge. 

It  was  bad  ice-boating  to-day.  The  wind  was 
fitful,  and  the  boat,  a  graceful  and  winged  thing 
in  full  flight,  dragged  heavily  along,  looking  the 
clumsy  makeshift  box  of  unpainted  boards  that  it 
was.  It  was  a  day  to  be  towed  along  on  your 
skates  with  one  hand  on  the  boat.  Judith  and 
Neil  had  tired  of  this  and  fallen  behind. 

Close  together,  but  not  taking  hands,  they  swung 
slowly  through  the  unpeopled  emptiness,  leaving 
a  tiny  scattering  of  tracks  behind,  the  blue-white 
ice  firm  under  their  feet  through  a  light  film  of 
snow.  The  ice-boat  was  out  of  sight,  the  sprightly 
and  unexpurgated  ballad  of  "  Amos  Moss,"  rendered 
in  the  closest  of  close  harmony,  could  be  heard  no 
longer,  and  a  heavy  silence  hung  over  the  lake. 
The  camp  lay  [far  behind  them,  a  vanishing 
speck. 


The  Wishing  Moon  109 

"Neil,  take  me  back,"  Judith  directed  suddenly. 

"Not  yet." 

"Please.  I  want  some  pop-corn.  .  .  .  Neil, 
I  don't  like  you.  You  won't  talk.  You're  queer 
to-day." 

He  did  not  answer.  They  cut  through  the  ice 
in  silence.  It  was  rougher  here.  They  were  near 
the  north  end  of  the  lake.  There  was  open  water 
there  to-day,  black  water  into  which  a  boat 
might  crash  and  go  down;  it  made  the  water  under 
them  seem  nearer  to  Judith,  black  water  with  only 
the  floor  of  ice  between.  She  shivered,  and  Neil 
broke  the  silence  abruptly,  his  eyes  still  straight 
ahead. 

"Judith." 

"Oh,  you  can  talk  then?" 

"Judith — do  you  love  me?" 

"Don't  be  silly."  Judith  spoke  sharply.  Days 
at  the  camp  were  always  a  trial  to  her.  The 
crowd,  bunched  together  in  a  big  hay-rack  mounted 
on  runners,  started  out  noisy  and  gay,  like  a  party 
of  children,  singing,  groping  for  apples  in  the  straw, 
and  playing  children's  games.  But  at  night, 
slipping  home  under  the  moon  to  a  tinkle  of  sleigh- 
bells,  covered  with  rugs  two  by  two,  a  change 
would  take  place:  arms  would  slip  around  waists 
that  yielded  after  perfunctory  protest;  in  the 
dark  of  the  woods  there  would  be  significant  whis- 


110  The  Wishing  Moon 

pering  and  more  significant  silences;  Willard 
would  be  unmanageable.  Judith  saw  this  with 
alien  eyes  because  of  Neil,  and  dreaded  it.  This 
that  was  between  them  was  so  much  more  beauti- 
ful, not  love-making,  not  real  love,  only  a  strange, 
white  dream. 

"You  don't,  then?     You  don't  love  me?" 

"We're  too  young." 

He  did  not  argue  the  point.  His  silence  had 
made  her  lonely  before,  now  it  frightened  her. 
She  slipped  a  hand  into  his,  warm  through  its 
clumsy  glove. 

"Cross  hands.     Don't  you  want  to?" 

"No." 

"But  I  want  to.  I'm  tired.  How  limp  your 
hand  feels.  Hold  my  hands  tighter.  Neil " 

"What?" 

"You  don't  mind — what  I  said  just  now?" 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"That  about  not  loving  you." 

"That?"  He  laughed  a  bitter,  lonely  sort  of 
laugh,  as  if  she  were  talking  about  something  that 
happened  a  long  time  ago.  "You  had  to  say  it. 
It's  true.  I  knew  it  well  enough.  I  just  thought 
I'd  ask  you." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  very  much — want  me  to 
love  you?" 

"Don't  talk  any  more  about  it." 


The  Wishing  Moon  111 

"Neil,  suppose  I  should  marry  Willard?" 

"I  suppose  you  will." 

"You  won't  mind  too  much?" 

"What  call  would  I  have  to  mind?  Who  am  I? 
What  am  I?" 

He  laughed  again,  the  same  hard  and  bitter 
laugh,  and  struck  out  faster,  gripping  her  hands 
hard,  so  that  it  hurt,  but  looking  away  from  her 
across  the  dead,  even  white  of  the  trackless  snow. 
There  was  a  pain  not  to  be  comforted  or  reached 
in  his  beautiful  eyes.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
her. 

"Neil,  wouldn't  you  care  at  all?"  she  said 
jealously. 

"Care?" 

"If  I  married  Willard?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Neil,  do  you  love  me?" 

He  did  not  answer  or  seem  to  hear,  and  now 
Judith  gave  up  asking  questions.  Carried  along 
at  his  side  in  silence,  she  listened  to  the  muffled 
creak  of  the  skates  on  the  snow-covered  ice, 
hushed  by  the  steady  and  sleepy  sound  of  it,  half 
closing  her  eyes.  His  left  arm  was  behind  her 
shoulders  now,  to  support  her,  and  she  could  feel 
it  there,  warm  and  strong.  Breathing  when  he 
breathed,  her  heart  beating  in  time  with  his, 
swinging  far  to  right  and  left,  tense  with  the  stroke 


112  TJie  Wishing  Moon 

• 

or  yielding  deliciously  in  the  recovery,  caught  in 
the  rhythm  of  it  as  if  some  force  outside  them  both 
were  carrying  them  on  like  one,  and  not  two,  and 
would  never  let  them  go,  Judith  yet  felt  far  away 
from  him. 

She  was  alone  in  the  heart  of  a  snow-covered 
world,  but  she  was  growing  content  to  be  alone. 
She  looked  up  at  his  white,  set  face  with  wide  and 
fearless  eyes,  while  the  lure  of  unexplored  and 
unseen  ice  invited  them  all  around,  and  the 
gray  and  brooding  sky  shut  them  in  closer  and 
closer. 

"Neil,"  she  said  softly,  not  caring  now  whether 
he  answered  or  heard,  "I  wish  we  needn't  ever  go 
back.  I  love  to-day." 

Not  long  after  this  Judith  and  Neil  went  snow- 
shoeing  one  Saturday  afternoon  by  special  ap- 
pointment, an  epoch-making  event  for  them. 
Judith  did  not  often  walk  with  him  or  take  him 
driving  when  the  sleigh  was  entrusted  to  her. 
She  was  not  of  ten  .seen  with  him.  With  quartette 
practice  and  committee  work  for  the  dramatic  club 
and  other  official  pretexts  for  the  time  they  spent 
together,  Willard  was  not  jealous  yet,  though  the 
winter  was  almost  over,  and  the  treasury  of  dreams 
was  filling  fast. 

But  this  time  she  made  an  engagement  with  Neil 
as  openly  as  if  he  were  Willard,  while  Natalie 


The  Wishing  Moon  113 

listened  jealously.  She  started  with  him  openly 
from  the  front  door,  with  her  mother's  disapproving 
eyes  upon  them  from  the  library  window,  and 
Neil  proudly  carrying  her  snowshoes,  all  un- 
conscious of  the  critical  eyes.  The  afternoon 
began  well,  but  no  afternoon  with  Neil  could  be 
counted  upon  to  go  as  it  began.  Two  hours 
later,  when  they  emerged  from  the  Everard  woods 
into  the  Colonel's  snow-covered  rose  garden,  they 
had  quarrelled  about  half  a  dozen  unrelated  sub- 
jects, all  equally  unimportant  in  themselves,  but 
suddenly  important  to  Neil,  who  now  found  further 
matter  for  debate. 

"What  did  you  bring  me  in  here  for?" 

"Didn't  you  know  I  was?" 

"How  should  I  know?  I'm  no  friend  of  Ever- 
ard's.  I  don't  know  my  way  through  his  grounds." 

"What  makes  you  call  him  Everard,  without 
any  Colonel  or  Mr.?  It  sounds  so — common." 

"It's  good  enough  for  me.  Here,  I  don't  want 
to  go  near  his  house.  I  hate  the  sight  of  it." 

"But  you  can't  go  back  by  the  path.  It's  too 
broken  up."  Judith  plunged  into  the  dismantled 
rose  arbour.  "Come  on,  if  you  don't  want  to 
see  the  house,  take  my  hand  and  shut  your 
eyes." 

"That's  what  Green  River  does,"  Neil  muttered 
darkly,  "shuts  its  eyes."  But  he  followed  her. 


114  The  Wishing  Moon 

"The  Red  Etin's  castle,"  Judith  announced; 
"you  know,  in  the  fairy  tale: 

"The  Red  Etin  of  Ireland, 

He  lived  in  Ballygan. 
He  stole  King  Malcolm's  daughter, 

The  pride  of  fair  Scotlan'. 
'Tis  said  there's  one  predestinate 
To  be  his  mortal  foe 

Well,  you  talk  as  if  the  Colonel  were  the  Red 
Etin,  poor  dear.  Oh,  Neil,  look!" 

Sinister  enough,  looming  turreted  and  tall 
against  a  background  of  winter  woods,  its  windows, 
unshuttered  still,  since  the  last  of  the  Colonel's 
week-end  parties,  and  curtainless,  catching  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  and  glaring 
malignantly,  the  house  confronted  them  across 
the  drifted  lawn. 

In  the  woods  that  circled  the  house,  denuded  of 
undergrowth,  seeming  always  to  be  edging  for- 
lornly closer  to  the  upstanding  edifice  for  comfort 
because  it  was  barren  and  unfriendly,  too,  the 
new-fallen  snow  lay  shadowy  and  soft,  clothing 
the  barrenness  with  grace.  Giant  pine  and  spruce 
that  had  survived  his  invasion  stood  up  proud  and 
green  under  the  crown  of  snow  that  lay  lightly 
upon  them,  as  it  had  lain  long  ago,  before  the 
Colonel  came.  And  between  woods  and  house, 


The  Wishing  Moon  115 

erasing  all  trace  of  tortuous  landscape  gardening, 
flower-bed  and  border  and  path,  as  if  it  had  never 
been,  lay  a  splendid,  softly  shining  sweep  of  blue- 
white  snow.  The  Colonel's  unbidden  guests  for- 
got their  quarrel  and  plunged  eagerly  across  the 
white  expanse. 

"Catch  me,"  Judith  called,  but  it  was  Neil, 
snatching  off  her  toboggan  cap  by  its  impudent 
tassel,  who  had  to  be  caught.  It  was  heavy  and 
breath-taking  work  on  the  broad,  old-fashioned 
snowshoes  which  she  managed  with  clumsy  grace. 
Judith,  short-skirted  and  trim  in  fleecy  white 
sweater,  collar  rolled  high  to  the  tips  of  small, 
pink  ears,  blond  curls  blowing  in  the  wind,  pursued 
ardently.  Neil  evaded  her  like  a  lean  and  darting 
shadow,  hands  deep  in  the  pockets  of  his  old  gray 
sweater,  cap  low  over  his  brooding  eyes. 

Under  the  unrelenting  glare  of  the  Colonel's 
windows,  and  across  the  deserted  grandeur  of  his 
lawn,  the  two  small  and  dishevelled  figures  dodged 
and  doubled  and  retreated,  only  to  grapple  and 
trip  each  other  up  at  last  at  the  foot  of  the  veranda 
steps,  and  collapse  there,  breathless  and  laughing. 
But  their  laughter  died  quickly,  and  Judith,  pulling 
the  recovered  cap  over  her  wind-tossed  curls, 
watched  the  brooding  gloom  come  back  into 
Neil's  eyes  as  he  settled  into  a  sulky  heap  on  the 
step  below  her. 


116  The  Wishing  Moon 

Her  quarrels  with  Neil  were  as  strange  as  her 
beautiful  hours  with  him,  fed  by  black  under- 
currents of  feeling  that  swept  and  surprised  her, 
flaming  up  suddenly  like  banked  fires.  She  was 
hotly  angry  with  him  now. 

"Neil,  I  heard  what  you  said  about  Green  River 
shutting  its  eyes.  It  was  foolish." 

"I'd  say  it  to  his  face."  Neil  flashed  a  black 
look  at  the  bland  and  elegant  drawing-room  win- 
dows, as  if  he  could  talk  to  the  Colonel  through 
them.  "I've  got  worse  than  that  to  say  to 
Everard." 

"Then  say  it  to  me.  Don't  hint.  I'm  tired  of 
hearing  you.  You're  as  bad  as  Norah." 

"You  wouldn't  understand." 

That  is  the  irresistible  challenge  to  any  woman. 
Judith's  eyes  kindled.  Neil  slouched  lower  on 
the  steps,  dropping  his  head  in  his  hands.  "Ever- 
ard," he  threw  out  presently,  "has  bought  the 
Hiawatha  Club  Camp." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"The  club  was  in  debt.  That's  a  bad  thing  for 
a  club  or  a  man  to  be,  if  the  Colonel  knows  it. 
And  it's  a  worse  thing  for  a  woman." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

He  did  not  explain  or  raise  his  head.  "I've 
got  a  job  for  the  summer  vacation,"  he  said  pres- 
ently. 


The  Wishing  Moon  117 

"Already?     Fine." 

"Oh,  fine.  In  the  fish  market — tend  store, 
drive  the  cart.  And  I'm  fired  from  the  Record, 
Judith." 

"Fired?" 

"They're  going  to  take  on  one  more  man,  and 
pay  him  real  money." 

"But  you've  got  the  Green  River  Jottings  to  do 
for  the  Wells  Clarion" 

"And  I  may  get  two  dollars  a  month  out  of  it.'* 

"Did  you  see  Judge  Saxon  again?" 

"Last  week." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  what  he  said?" 

"I  told  you  what  he  would  say." 

"Oh,  Neil!" 

"The  Judge  hates  to  say  no,  that's  why  he  took 
time  to  think  it  over.  He'd  be  a  bigger  man  if  he 
didn't  hate  to  say  no.  He  was  right  to  say  no  to 
me." 

"Then  I  wouldn't  admit  it." 

"What's  it  worth  to  read  law  in  a  country  law 
office?  The  time  for  that's  past.  He's  right. 
And  suppose  he  took  me  on,  what  would  it  do  for 
me?  Look  at  Charlie.  Doing  hack  work  and 
dirty  work  to  pay  the  rent  of  a  place  to  drink 
himself  to  death  in.  He's  got  brains  enough.  He 
knows  law  enough.  He's  slaved  and  starved  and 
got  ready  for  his  chance,  and  his  chance  don't 


118  v  The  Wishing  Moon 

come.  Why?  Because  he's  Charlie  Brady.  Well 
I'm  Neil  Donovan.  I'm  Irish,  too,  what  they 
called  me  the  first  time  I  saw  you — a  paddy." 

"That's  not  the  Colonel's  fault." 

"Who  do  you  think  gets  the  Record  job?" 

Judith  shook  her  blond  head,  disdaining  to 
answer,  a  gathering  storm  in  her  eyes. 

"Chet  Gaynor — Mr.  J.  Chester  Gaynor.  Lil 
Burr's  brother.  Her  prize  brother,  the  one  that's 
been  fired  from  three  prep  schools.  Everard  got 
him  a  scholarship  at  the  last  one." 

"  Why  not?  He  ought  to  help  his  friends.  He's 
a  kind  man  and  lots  of  fun.  It's  not  his  fault  if 
you  don't  get  on.  It's  your  own  fault.  You  don't 
have  to  work  in  a  fish  market  if  you  don't  want  to, 
or  sit  there  and  sneer  at  a  man  who  doesn't  care 
what  you  think  of  him.  Abraham  Lincoln  split 
rails " 

Judith  stopped,  amazed.  Quite  abruptly  Neil 
had  ceased  to  sit  on  the  steps  and  sneer.  He  was 
on  his  feet,  hands  clenched,  thin  body  tense  and 
dangerous,  face  dead  white  and  eyes  blazing,  as 
Judith  had  never  seen  him  before,  or  only  once 
before,  too  angry  for  words,  but  not  needing  them. 

"Neil,  do  you  really  hate  him?  Hate  him  like 
that?  I  never  thought  you  meant  it.  But  why — 
what  has  he  done?" 

"Care  what  I  think?     If  I  was  any  one  else — 


The  Wishing  Moon  119 

your  fool  of  a  Willard — any  one  in  this  town  but 
me,  I'd  make  him  care." 

"  He's  done  nothing  wrong.  Neil,  don't.  Your 
eyes  look  all  queer.  You're  frightening  me." 

"No,  he's  done  nothing  wrong,  nothing  you 
could  get  him  for.  He's  too  careful.  He  plays 
favourites.  He  fools  women.  He  locks  the  door 
to  every  chance  to  get  on  in  this  town  and  he  sells 
the  keys.  He's  got  his  hand  on  the  neck  of  the 
town,  and  he's  shutting  it  tighter  and  tighter. 
That's  all  he  does.  That's  all  Everard  does." 

"You  can't  prove  it." 

"  He  takes  good  care  I  can't." 

"  You  can't  prove  a  word  of  it." 

"Your  father  could." 

"He's  kind  to  father.     He's  kind  to  me." 

"You  talk  like  a  child." 

"  Well,  you  talk  like  my  mother's  cook.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Neil,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that.  Forgive  me. 
Where  are  you  going?  I  didn't  mean  to  say  it." 

"Let  me  go." 

"You're  hurting  me." 

"I  hate  you!  You're  one  of  them — one  of  the 
Everard  crowd.  I  hate  you,  too!" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  Her  short, 
panting  struggle  with  him  over,  her  wrists  smarting 
from  the  backward  twist  that  had  broken  her  hold 
on  him,  she  leaned  against  the  veranda  rail  breath- 


120  The  Wishing  Moon 

less  and  stared  with  fascinated  eyes.  When  this 
quarrel  had  gone  the  way  of  their  other  quarrels, 
atoned  for  by  inarticulate  words  of  infinite  mean- 
ing, justified  by  the  keen  delight  of  reconciling 
kisses,  Judith  was  to  keep  one  picture  from  it: 
Neil  as  she  saw  him  then,  standing  over  her  white- 
faced  and  angry,  ragged  and  splendid,  Neil  as  she 
had  seen  him  once  before. 

"May-night!"  she  cried.  "You  look  the  way 
you  did  that  May-night.  I'm  afraid  of  you." 

"Everard!"  He  turned  from  her,  and  looking 
at  the  windows  again  as  if  the  Colonel  were  behind 
him,  swung  back  his  arm,  and  sent  it  crashing 
through  the  glass  of  the  nearest  one — once  and  a 
second  time.  "Oh,  you  don't  want  me  to  call 
him  Everard.  Colonel  Everard !" 

"Neil,  I'm  afraid." 

He  looked  at  the  fragments  of  broken  glass  and 
at  Judith  scornfully,  but  the  angry  light  was 
fading  out  of  his  eyes  already,  the  magic  light; 
against  her  will  she  was  sorry  to  see  it  go. 

Are  you  hurt  ?     Did  you  hurt  your  hand  ?  " 

"What  do  you  care  if  I  did?  Don't  be  afraid, 
Judy.  He  can  pay  for  a  pane  of  glass  or  two.  He 
wouldn't  care  if  I  burned  his  house  down.  No- 
body cares  what  I  do.  I'm  a  paddy." 

Awkward,  suddenly  conscious  of  his  snowshoes, 
he  shuffled  across  the  matched  boards  of  the  Colo- 


The  Wishing  Moon  121 

nel's  veranda  and  down  the  steps,  turning  there 
for  a  farewell  word : 

"I'm  going.  Don't  cry.  I'm  not  worth  it. 
I'm  a  paddy,  from  Paddy  Lane." 

Dream  pictures,  pleasant  or  sad,  making  her 
cheeks  burn  in  the  dark,  or  little  secret  smiles 
come  when  Judith  recalled  them.  Some  lived 
in  her  heart  and  some  faded.  Judith  did  not 
choose  or  reject  them  deliberately.  They  chose 
or  rejected  themselves,  arranging  themselves 
into  an  intricate  pattern  of  growing  clearness. 
She  did  not  watch  it  grow.  It  was  only  when  it 
was  quite  complete  that  she  would  see  it,  but  it 
was  growing  fast. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

YOU'LL  find  the  coffee  pot  on  the  back  of 
the  stove.  I'm  washing  out  a  few 
things,"  said  Mrs.  Donovan. 

Though  she  kept  her  five  little  nephews  and 
nieces  in  dark-patterned  dresses  or  shirts,  as  the 
case  might  be,  and  encouraged  her  brother  Michael 
to  wear  flannel  shirts,  and  even  limited  her  eldest 
niece,  Maggie  Brady,  clerking  in  the  Green  River 
Dry  Goods  Emporium  now,  instead  of  helping  her 
father  in  his  little  store  at  the  Falls,  to  three  white 
waists  a  week,  she  was  usually  washing  out  a  few 
things. 

The  contending  odours  of  damp  clothes  and 
rank  coffee  were  as  much  a  part  of  the  Brady 
kitchen  as  the  dishes  stacked  in  the  sink  for  Neil 
to  wash,  or  the  broken-legged,  beautifully  grained 
mahogany  card  table  in  the  warm  corner  near  the 
stove,  where  his  school  books  were  piled,  a  relic 
of  his  dead  father's  prosperous  saloon-keeping 
days,  or  the  view  of  Larribee's  Marsh  through  the 
curtainless  windows  with  their  torn  green  shades. 

The  swampy  field  was  the  most  improvident 
part  of  an  improvident  purchase — a  brown,  tum- 

122 


The  Wishing  Moon  123 

bledown  house,  wind  swept  and  cold,  inconveni- 
ently far  from  the  settlement  at  the  Falls  and  the 
larger  town,  heavily  mortgaged,  and  not  paid  for 
yet,  but  early  on  sunny  spring  mornings  like  this 
the  field  was  beautiful;  level  and  empty  and  green, 
the  only  monotonous  thing  in  that  restless  stretch 
of  New  England  country,  billowy  with  little  hills, 
and  rugged  with  clumps  of  trees.  A  boy  could 
people  the  sunlit  emptiness  of  the  field  with  airy 
creatures  of  folk-lore,  eagerly  gleaned  in  a  busy 
mother's  rare  story-telling  moments,  or  with 
Caesar's  cohorts  marching  across  it,  splendid  in 
the  sun,  if  he  had  eyes  for  them.  The  only  boy 
who  ever  had  regarded  the  familiar,  glinting  green 
of  the  field  with  unkindled  eyes  to-day  as  he  sat 
finishing  his  lukewarm  breakfast.  Yet  it  was 
Saturday  morning,  that  magic  time,  the  last 
Saturday  of  his  last  spring  vacation,  and  he  had 
only  one  more  term  of  school  before  him. 

On  this  Saturday  morning  he  had  an  unpleasant 
errand  to  do,  and  he  was  carefully  dressed  for  it, 
just  as  he  had  been  dressed  for  the  Lyceum 
declamation  contest  and  ball  the  night  before, 
but  not  so  effectively,  for  his  best  black  suit 
showed  threadbare  in  the  morning  sun,  and  the 
shine  on  his  shoes  was  painstakingly  applied,  and 
a  heavy,  even,  blue  black,  but  they  needed 
tapping.  His  brown  eyes  had  a  big,  rather  hungry 


124  The  Wishing  Moan 

look  that  was  unquestionably  picturesque,  and 
Miss  Natalie  Ward  would  have  approved  of  it, 
if  his  mother  did  not,  watching  him  as  she  trailed 
in  and  out  of  the  room. 

"Making  out  all  right?  Don't  hurry,"  she 
said. 

"I'm  in  no  hurry  to  get  there,"  agreed  her  son. 

"He  won't  say  no  to  you.  He  never  has  yet, 
and  he  likes  you." 

"Oh,  he  won't  say  no.  Nothing  new  will  hap- 
pen to  me  in  this  town;  not  even  that." 

Neil's  mother  paused,  balancing  her  clothes  bas- 
ket against  one  hip,  and  deftly  favouring  the  string- 
mended  handle,  then  put  it  heavily  down,  and 
leaned  on  the  table  and  looked  at  him — a  small, 
tired,  pretty  woman,  with  gray,  far-away  eyes 
that  were  like  no  other  eyes  in  Green  River,  and 
a  smile  like  Neil's. 

"Tired?  "she  said. 

"Dog  tired." 

"Well,  you  were  out  till  three." 

"One.  That  was  Maggie  you  heard  at  three. 
Where  was  she?  " 

"That's  her  business." 

"It's  Charlie's,  if  he's  going  to  marry  her." 

"It's  not  yours,  then.  Never  mind  Maggie. 
Tour  uncle  and  I  had  a  talk  about  you  last  night." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  to  see  my  dance  order?" 


The  Wishing  Moon  125 

He  made  a  defensive  clutch  at  his  pocket  as  if  she 
had,  and  quick  colour  swept  into  his  cheeks.  She 
watched  it,  and  watched  it  fade,  leaving  his  face 
tired  and  sullen,  and  too  old  for  its  years.  "  Uncle !  " 

"He's  been  like  a  father  to  you." 

"I've  been  two  sons  to  him,  then.  He's  worked 
me  like  two.  If  he  grudges  the  time  I  take  off,  I 
can  make  it  up  to  him.  There's  been  little  enough 
of  it,  and  there'll  be  little  more,  and  there's  been 
little  enough  enjoyment  in  it,  and  I'm  not  ashamed 
of  it.  Why  don't  he  spy  on  his  own  daughter,  if 

he's  curious?  Why "  This  outburst  ended 

as  suddenly  as  it  began,  in  a  short,  sullen  laugh 
as  he  pushed  his  empty  cup  away.  "Dan  thinks 
he  can  land  something  for  me  with  the  telephone 
company.  I  couldn't  send  money  home  at  first, 
but  I'd  be  off  your  hands.  Tell  that  to  Uncle." 

"Would  you  be  with  Dan,  in  Wells?" 

"Somewhere  outside  Wells.  It  won't  be  too 
gay.  You  needn't  be  afraid  I'll  go  to  too  many 
dances." 

"  Don't  glare  at  me.     I'm  not  your  uncle." 

"Sorry.     I  don't  know  what's  wrong  with  me." 

"Don't  you?" 

He  flushed,  laughed,  and  ignored  the  question, 
producing  a  small  box  and  offering  it.  "I  got 
that  last  night.  Don't  wipe  your  hands.  They're 
good  enough  to  handle  it  wet."  A  gold  medal 


126  The  Wishing  Moon 

glittered  in  her  hand.  He  observed  it  without  en- 
thusiasm, and  noticing  that,  his  mother  shut  the 
b.ox  abruptly. 

"Neil,  that's  the  first  prize." 

"Looks  like  it.  I  spoke  the  Gettysburg  address, 
and  they  always  fall  for  that.  Good-bye,  I'm  off." 

"Neil,  come  back  here." 

He  swung  round  with  his  cap  doubled  under  his 
arm,  and  stood  before  her,  helpless  and  sullen, 
hedged  about  with  that  sudden  dignity  which  no 
woman  creature  can  break  through,  but  seeming 
to  derive  no  comfort  from  it.  Painful  colour 
mounted  to  her  cheeks,  as  if  the  effort  of  keeping 
him  there  was  all  she  could  manage  without  the 
effort  of  opening  delicate  subjects. 

"Neil,  I'm  worried  about  you." 

"Why?  Are  you  afraid  I'll  marry  beneath  me? 
I  won't  marry  without  your  consent.  It's  not 
being  done." 

"You  got  three  dollars  from  the  Clarion  last 
week." 

"Are  you  afraid  I'll  try  to  support  a  wife  on 
it?" 

"It's  the  most  you've  made  from  them.  Why 
weren't  you  proud  of  it?  Why  aren't  you  proud  of 
this  prize?  A  year  ago  you'd  have  had  me  up  at 
one  to  speak  your  piece  to  me.  There's  no  life 
in  you,  and  no  pride,  and  I  know  why." 


The  Wishing  Moon  127 

t 
"Me  with  so  much  to  be  proud  of." 

"You're  good  enough  for  any  girl,  but " 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  know  my  place,  with  the 
whole  town  teaching  it  to  me  going  on  eighteen 
years?  I've  got  no  false  hopes,  and  I  shan't  lose 
my  head  over  any  girl.  Let  me  be." 

"It's  not  the  town  that's  taught  you  your 
place,  it's " 

"  Don't  you  say  her  name." 

I' — empty  headed  and  overdressed." 
"Go  on.     Judith  Randall  don't  care  what  you 
think  of  her." 

"Can't  you  even  get  up  enough  spirit  to  stand 
up  for  her?  You  that  thought  you  had  your  for- 
tune all  but  made  when  you  got  the  chickens  paid 
for,  and  followed  me  round  the  house,  telling  me 
how  you'd  run  the  town?  You  that  could  tell 
what  was  wrong  with  the  Record  editorials,  if 
you  couldn't  pay  for  a  year's  subscription  to  the 
paper?  You " 

"Yes,  I  come  from  one  of  the  five  lines  in  Ire- 
land what  have  a  right  to  the  O',  but  you  never 
tell  me  that  unless  you've  got  something  else  to 
tell  me  that  you're  afraid  to  tell.  What  is  it  this 
time?" 

"You  come  of  Irish  kings." 

"What  did  Uncle  say  last  night?" 

"Well,  he's  getting  to  be  an  old  man." 


128  The  Wishing  Moon 

"What  did  he  say?" 

His  mother  did  not  reply.  She  avoided  his 
eyes,  and  made  no  further  criticism  of  him,  or 
of  a  young  lady  who  was  no  doubt  as  indifferent 
to  her  criticisms  as  Neil  said,  since  she  did  not 
recognize  Mrs.  Donovan  on  the  street. 

"Uncle,"  Neil  decided  deliberately,  "wants  me 
to  help  in  the  store.  I  can't  go  to  Wells." 

"He  can't  get  on  alone  new  Maggie's  gone. 
We  need  your  board  money  to  run  the  house  at 
all.  Dan  was  wild  to  get  away  from  Green  River, 
but  in  two  years  he's  got  no  farther  than  Wells, 
and  ten  dollars  a  week.  I  know  we  ought  to 
leave  you  free  to  start  yourself,  if  we  can't  give 
you  a  start,  but " 

"Is  that  all  you  want  to  tell  me?" 

She  put  out  an  unaccustomed  arm  and  pulled 
him  awkwardly  close.  He  came  obediently,  and 
patted  her  shoulder  stiffly  but  did  not  kiss  her. 
"I  know  what  this  means,"  she  asserted,  and 
showed  a  rapidly  forming  intention  of  crying  on 
his  shoulder.  "It  hurts  me  like  it  does  you." 

"It  don't  hurt  me.  I  ought  to  have  seen  it 
myself.  I  ought  not  to  have  planned  to  go. 
It's  all  right,  mother.  Is  that  all?" 

"All?  It's  enough.  I  was  awake  hah*  the 
night  planning  to  break  it  to  you." 

"You  broke  it  all  right.     I'll  be  going."     He 


"  '/  know  what  this  means,'  she  asserted  " 


The  Wishing  Moon  129 

shook  out  his  crushed  cap,  and  adjusted  it  with 
dignity,  looking  at  her  calmly  out  of  impenetrable 
eyes,  like  a  young  prince  ending  an  audience,  with 
more  power  behind  him  than  he  knew,  kissed  her 
gravely  on  the  cheek  with  cool  young  lips,  and 
opened  the  door,  and  walked  off  into  the  sun- 
shine. 

"It's  the  girl,"  said  his  mother,  but  not  until 
the  door  had  closed  behind  him.  "No  girl  is  good 
enough  to  do  what  she's  done  to  you."  Then  she 
selected  the  frilliest  of  Maggie's  blouses,  which  had 
dried  while  she  talked,  and  spread  it  on  the  iron- 
ing table  to  sprinkle  again. 

Neil  did  not  look  like  a  young  man  crossed  in 
love,  or  a  young  man  with  his  future  wrecked  by  a 
word.  He  did  not  give  a  backward  glance  to  the 
little  brown  house  with  the  sun  on  its  many-paned 
windows,  or  seem  to  hear  the  children's  voices 
from  the  old  barn  behind  the  house— the  favourite 
refuge  of  the  little  Bradys  when  they  were  ban- 
ished from  the  kitchen — that  echoed  after  him  in 
the  clear  morning  air,  shrill  and  then  fainter  as 
he  left  the  place  behind. 

He  had  settled  into  his  usual  pace  for  this  fa- 
miliar walk — a  steady  stride  that  you  could  fit  the 
unmanageable  parts  of  a  Latin  verb  to  the  rhythm 
of,  or  the  refractory  words  of  a  song;  but  it  was  not 
*  usual  day.  It  was  the  first  warm  day  of  that 


130  The  Wishing  Moon 

April,  wanner  already,  with  the  goading  urge  of 
spring  in  the  softening  air  that  frets  and  troubles 
with  new  desires  and  a  sense  of  unfitness  for  them 
at  once,  and  will  not  let  you  be.  The  road,  fringed 
with  scattering  trees,  and  wind-swept  and  bleak 
on  winter  days,  was  golden  with  new  sunlight, 
spongy  underfoot,  but  drying  under  your  eyes  in 
the  morning  sun.  The  boy's  brooding  face  did  not 
change  as  he  walked,  but  his  shoulders  straight- 
ened themselves,  and  lost  their  patient  look,  and 
his  lean  young  body  gave  itself  more  gayly  to 
the  swing  of  his  pace  and  looked  strong  and  free, 
alive  with  the  unconscious  strength  of  youth 
that  must  be  caught  and  harnessed  to  make  the 
wheels  of  the  world  go  round  before  it  can  be 
taught  what  its  purpose  is. 

Whether  it  troubled  him  or  not — his  face  did 
not  tell — all  that  his  mother  had  hinted  was 
wrong  with  his  world,  and  more.  No  outsider 
had  ever  won  a  place  like  Neil's  in  Green  River 
High  School  society  so  far  as  the  ur  ,/ritten  history 
of  it  recorded.  Charlie  Brady  in  his  time,  and 
Dan  after  him,  had  been  extra  men  at  big  dances, 
hard  worked  and  patronized  in  school  entertain- 
ments, more  intimate  with  the  boys  than  the 
girls.  Charlie,  deep  in  a  secret  love  affair  with 
Lil  Gaynor,  had  still  called  her  Miss  in  public, 
and  treated  her  as  respectfully  as  he  did  now  that 


The  Wishing  Moon  131 

the  affair  was  forgotten  and  she  was  Mrs.  Burr 
and  one  of  the  Everard  circle.  Charlie  and  Dan 
had  only  looked  over  impassable  barriers.  Neil 
had  been  really  inside — included  in  small,  inti- 
mate parties,  like  week-ends  at  Camp  Hiawatha, 
openly  favoured  by  Natalie,  if  not  Judith — inside 
and  he  would  soon  be  shut  out. 

There  were  new  signs  of  it  every  day.  The 
long,  friendly  winter,  when  he  had  been  safe  in  that 
intimate  fellowship,  was  over.  The  girls  were 
planning  their  gowns  for  college  commencement 
dances.  Willard  came  back  from  a  week-end  at 
the  state  university  pledged  to  a  fraternity  there 
and  refusing  to  discuss  minor  subjects.  God- 
like creatures  in  amazing  neckties  condescended 
to  visit  him,  and  Natalie  was  beginning  to  collect 
fraternity  pins.  Rena  and  Ed  were  engaged,  and 
under  the  impression  that  it  was  a  secret,  and  a 
place  was  being  made  for  Ed  in  the  bank.  In  one 
way  or  another,  the  world  was  opening  to  all  of 
them,  and  closing  to  Neil. 

And  with  the  spring,  the  Everards  had  come 
back  to  Green  River.  The  big,  over-decorated 
house  had  not  been  open  a  week,  but  already  they 
pervaded  the  town.  Their  cars  whirled  through 
the  splashing  spring  streets,  and  ladies  not  upon 
Mrs.  Everard's  calling  list  peered  at  the  passen- 
gers to  see  who  was  hi  her  favour.  The  Colonel 


132  The  Wishing  Moon 

was  turning  the  Hiawatha  Club  into  a  private 
camp,  and  closing  it  to  the  town,  but  nobody 
protested  much.  He  was  ordering  a  complete 
set  of  slip  covers  from  the  furniture  department 
of  Ward's  Emporium,  and  the  daring  group  of 
prominent  business  men  who  ventured  to  assail 
the  Colonel's  political  views  and  private  morals 
sometimes  in  the  little  room  at  the  rear  of  the 
store  lacked  support  from  Ward.  Neil  had  the 
run  of  the  store  and  hung  about  and  listened,  but 
never  contributed.  Whether  these  criticisms  were 
justified  or  not,  the  Everards  were  back  again. 

Judith  had  given  up  the  Lyceum  dance  for  the 
first  of  the  Everard  dinners  the  night  before.  It 
was  three  days  since  Neil  had  seen  her,  and  he  was 
to  see  her  to-day,  but  he  was  showing  no  impatience 
for  the  meeting.  The  end  of  the  world,  not  the 
beginning  of  it,  that  was  what  spring  would  mean 
to  him,  and  that  is  a  graver  catastrophe  at  eigh- 
teen than  at  eighty.  The  boy  who  was  facing 
it  had  passed  the  outlying  straggle  of  houses,  and 
had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  town,  and  to  the  end 
of  the  long,  hilly  street  that  led  down  past  the 
court-house,  straight  into  Post  Office  Square,  the 
heart  of  the  town.  It  was  still  empty  of  traffic 
at  ten,  and  looked  sunny  and  empty  and  clean, 
wide-awake  for  the  day.  He  took  his  hands  out 
of  his  pockets,  stopped  whistling  "Amos  Moss," 


The  Wishing  Moon  133 

and  hurried  down  Court-house  Hill,  stepping  in 
time  to  the  tune  of  it. 

A  mud-splashed  Ford  clattered  down  Main 
Street,  and  drew  up  in  front  of  the  post-office 
as  Neil  reached  it  with  a  flourish  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  more  elegant  equipage  than  this 
second-hand  one  of  the  Nashes.  Two  elegant 
young  gentlemen,  week-end  guests  of  Willard's  and 
duly  presented  to  Neil  the  night  before,  ignored 
his  existence,  perusing  a  gaudily  covered  series  of 
topical  songs  with  exaggerated  attention  on  the 
rear  seat  of  the  car,  but  Willard  greeted  him  ex- 
uberantly: 

"Ah,  there,  Murph.  You  don't  look  like  the 
morning  after.  Sorry  I  haven't  got  room  for 
you.  We've  got  other  plans.  We  love  the 
ladies." 

"I'm  tied  up,  anyway.     So  long." 

Willard's  tone  was  too  patronizing,  but  he  was 
not  to  blame,  for  the  days  when  they  would  ex- 
change intimate  greetings  at  all  were  numbered. 
As  Neil  left  them  one  of  the  elegant  guests  de- 
manded audibly : 

"Who's  your  friend?" 

Neil  flushed  but  did  not  look  back.  He  had  an 
errand  to  do  in  the  few  minutes  before  his  appoint- 
ment with  Judge  Saxon.  He  crossed  the  street 
to  Ward's  store. 


134  The  Wishing  Moon 

Ward's  Dry  Goods  Emporium,  three  stores  in 
one,  and  literally  three  stores  bought  out  one  by 
one,  and  joined  by  connecting  doors,  though  they 
could  never  be  united  in  their  style  of  architecture, 
was  rather  dark  and  chaotic  inside,  though  a  brave 
showing  of  plate  glass  across  the  front  advertised 
its  prosperity.  Luther  Ward  himself,  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  was  looking  over  a  tray  of  soiled,  pale-col- 
oured spats,  assisted  by  a  tall,  full-bodied  girl  with 
a  sweet,  sulky  mouth,  and  a  towering  mass  of  blue- 
black  hair. 

"Hello,  Donovan,  what's  new?"  he  said,  with 
only  a  shade  more  condescension  than  Willard, 
and  distinctly  more  friendliness. 

"Nothing,  sir,"  said  Neil  with  conviction. 

"You  want  to  talk  to  Maggie,  here.  I  won't 
intrude  on  a  family  quarrel,"  said  Mr.  Ward, 
and  chuckling  heartily  at  his  own  mild  joke,  as 
he  generally  did,  and  few  others  did,  disappeared 
into  the  furniture  department,  the  central  one  of 
the  three  stores,  and  his  favourite.  The  two  cous- 
ins regarded  each  other  across  the  tray  of  spats  as 
if  the  family  quarrel  were  not  a  joke,  but  an  un- 
pleasant reality. 

"You  can't  come  here  and  take  up  my  time," 
stated  Miss  Brady. 

"Your  time  is  pretty  full — evenings,  too.  Do 
you  know  where  Charlie  was  last  night?" 


The  Wishing  Moon  135 

"I  don't  care." 

"  You  ought.  He's  your  second  cousin,  and  goes 
by  the  same  name  as  you,  if  you're  not  in  love 
with  him.  He  was  in  Halloran's  billiard  hall." 

"If  he  can't  keep  himself  out  of  the  gutter,  I 
can't  keep  him  out,"  stated  Miss  Brady  logically. 

"Well,  don't  push  him  in,"  her  cousin  advised, 
but  the  light  of  battle  had  died  out  of  his  eyes, 
leaving  them  listless.  "It's  nothing  to  me.  I 
only  came  to  bring  you  this." 

He  produced  something  from  an  inner  pocket 
and  tossed  it  on  the  counter,  something  wrapped 
in  a  twist  of  newspaper,  which  parted  as  the  girl 
bent  eagerly  over  it,  something  which  shone  and 
twinkled  alluringly,  as  she  straightened  it  out  with 
caressing  fingers  and  held  it  up  to  the  light — a 
little  necklace  of  rather  ornate  design  and  startling 
colours,  crimson  stones  and  green  and  blue,  the 
gayest  of  toys. 

"Seems  to  be  yours  all  right." 

His  cousin,  who  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his 
existence  for  one  rapt  moment,  remembered  it 
with  a  start.  "Did  you  show  this  to  your 
mother?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  she  don't  like  to  have  me  spend  my 
money  on  imitation  jewellery."  Miss  Brady  deliv- 
ered this  very  natural  explanation  haltingly. 


136  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Do  you?" 

One  of  the  sudden,  vivid  blushes  which  had 
helped  to  establish  her  reputation  as  a  beauty 
overspread  Miss  Brady's  cheek.  "I  missed  it  this 
morning  and  didn't  have  time  to  hunt  for  it,  and 
I  was  worried.  I  don't  want  to  show  it  to  her. 
It  cost  a  good  deal." 

"It  must  have.  They  say  a  ruby's  the  only 
stone  you  can't  imitate." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Miss  Brady's  cheeks 
grew  still  redder.  "Why  don't  you  save  your  big 
talk  for  Saxon?  You  may  need  it.  Why  don't 
you  mind  your  own  affairs,  and  leave  mine  alone?" 

"Leave  that  on  the  kitchen  floor  for  mother 
to  find  and  sweep  up  in  a  broken  dust-pan,  or  one 
of  the  kids  to  show  to  your  father?" 

"Why  not?  Haven't  I  got  a  right  to  do  what 
I  want  with  my  own  money?  Haven't  I  got  a 
right  to  do  what  I  want  with  myself?  Wlio  are 
you  to  dictate  to  me,  with  the  Randall  girl  making 
a  fool  of  you?  Why " 

"  That  will  be  all."  Though  Miss  Brady's  voice 
had  been  threatening  to  make  itself  heard  through- 
out all  the  three  stores  in  one,  she  stopped  obe- 
diently, looking  defiant  but  frightened,  but  when 
her  cousin  spoke  again  the  ring  of  authority  which 
had  shocked  her  was  gone  from  his  voice. 

"Don't  be  scared.     It's  nothing  to  me  what  yo* 


The  Wishing  Moon  137 

do,  and  I  shan't  talk  too  much.  You  know  me, 
Mag." 

"No,  I  don't,  not  lately.  You  act  doped,  not 
half  there.  I  can't  make  you  out.  If  you  think 
— if  you  suspect " 

"I  don't.  It's  nothing  to  me.  I'm  due  at 
Saxon's.  Put  your  glass  beads  away  before  Ward 
sees  them.  Good  luck  to  you." 

Miss  Brady,  standing  quite  still  in  one  of  her 
carefully  cultivated,  statuesque  poses,  watched  her 
cousin  cross  the  street  and  disappear  into  a  narrow 
and  shabbily  painted  doorway  there.  Then  she 
took  his  advice,  and  producing  a  red  morocco 
wrist  bag  from  under  the  counter,  shut  the  necklace 
into  it  with  a  vicious  snap,  as  if  she  did  not  derive 
so  much  pleasure  as  before  from  handling  it 
now. 

Her  cousin  climbed  the  three  flights  of  stairs  to 
Judge  Saxon's  office.  The  stairs  were  dingy  and 
looked  unswept,  and  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  door  of 
the  untenanted  suite  across  the  landing  from  the 
Judge's  was  broken.  Nothing  about  the  Judge's 
quarters  indicated  that  he  was  Colonel  Everard's 
attorney,  a  big  man  in  the  town  before  the  Everard 
regime  and  under  it — an  unusual  combination. 
His  office  was  shabby  outside  and  in.  The  letter- 
ing on  the  door,  Saxon  and  Burr,  Attorneys-at- 
Law,  looked  newer  than  it  was  by  contrast,  and  it 


138  The  Wishing  Moon 

was  still  only  six  months  old.     Theodore  Burr 
had  his  delayed  junior  partnership  at  last. 

The  Judge's  young  client  did  not  pause  to  col- 
lect himself  on  the  worn  door-mat,  as  he  had  done 
when  he  first  came  here  on  errands  like  this.  They 
were  an  old  story  to  him  now,  and  so  were  scenes 
like  the  one  with  Maggie,  which  he  had  just 
come  through  so  creditably.  He  looked  quite 
unruffled  by  it,  calm  as  people  are  when  they  have 
no  troubles  to  bear — or  when  they  have  borne  all 
they  can,  and  are  about  to  find  relief  in  establishing 
the  fact.  He  knocked  and  stepped  inside. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

AFIRE  in  the  air-tight  stove  in  the  corner 
had  taken  the  early  morning  chill  from  the 
room  and  been  permitted  to  burn  out,  now 
that  the  morning  sun  came  in  warm  through  the 
dusty  windows,  but  the  room  was  still  close  and 
cloudy  with  wood  smoke.  At  a  battered,  roll- 
topped  desk  in  the  sunniest  window  Mr.  Theodore 
Burr  was  struggling  with  the  eccentricities  of  an 
ancient  Remington,  and  looking  superior  to  it  and 
to  all  his  surroundings,  but  the  Judge  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen. 

Mr.  Burr  was  a  very  large,  very  pink  young  man, 
with  blond  hair  which  would  have  looked  too 
good  to  be  true  on  a  woman,  and  near-set,  green- 
blue  eyes  which  managed  to  look  vacant  and 
aggressive  at  the  same  time.  He  was  wearing  a 
turquoise-blue  tie  which  accentuated  their  effec- 
tiveness, and  he  occupied  himself  ostentatiously 
with  the  Remington  for  quite  three  minutes  before 
he  turned  his  most  vacant  and  aggressive  look  upon 
his  client. 

"Well,  Donovan?"  he  said. 

Mr.  Burr's  manner  was  as  patronizing  as  Mr. 

139 


140  The  Wishing  Moon 

Ward's  with  the  friendliness  left  out,  but  his 
client  was  not  chilled  by  it. 

"Theodore,  where's  the  Judge?"  he  asked. 

"Mr.  Burr."  The  pink  young  man  turned  two 
shades  pinker  as  he  made  the  correction.  "The 
Judge  is  engaged." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

Mr.  Burr  laughed  unpleasantly  and  held  up  his 
hand.  From  the  other  side  of  a  door  labelled 
private — misleadingly,  for  the  Judge's  little  sanc- 
tum, where  half  the  town  had  the  privilege  of 
crowding  in  and  tipping  back  chairs  and  smoking, 
was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  clubroom  that  the 
town  afforded,  now  that  the  Hiawatha  Club  was 
no  more — muffled  voices  were  faintly  audible. 

"You  can  talk  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Burr. 

"I  can,  and  I  can  go  away  and  come  back  when 
he's  not  engaged.  He  said  he'd  see  me." 

"He's  changed  his  mind.  He  don't  want  to 
see  you.  I  know  all  about  your  case." 

"You've  learned  a  lot  in  six  months." 

"Talk  like  that  won't  get  you  anything,  Dono- 
van, here  or  anywhere  else,"  remarked  Mr.  Burr, 
reasonably,  if  somewhat  offensively.  Admitting 
it,  his  client  dropped  into  one  of  the  Judge's  big 
office  chairs,  and  sat  there,  fingering  his  cap  as 
he  talked,  and  looking  suddenly  beaten  and 
tired. 


The  Wishing  Moon  141 

"You're  right,  Theodore.  Well,  what's  all  this 
you  know  about  my  case?" 

"Mike  Brady  sends  you  here  begging  when 
he's  ashamed  to  come  himself.  It's  hard  on  you, 
Neil." 

"My  uncle's  too  busy  to  come.  Is  that  all  you 
know?" 

"I  know  what  you  want  to-day,  and  you  can't 
have  it." 

"What  do  I  want?" 

Mr.  Burr's  manner  had  become  alarmingly 
official,  but  his  client  continued  to  smile  at  him, 
and  to  fold  and  unfold  his  cap  methodically. 

"An  extension  of  time  on  your  uncle's  mortgage. 
The  principal  is  due  the  first  of  next  month. 
You've  kept  the  Judge  waiting  twice  for  the  inter- 
est, the  security  is  insufficient,  the  bank  holds  a 
first  mortgage  on  the  house,  and  for  fourteen 
months  your  uncle  has  made  no  payment  to  the 
Judge  whatever." 

"Don't  rub  it  in,  Theodore." 

"  This  is  no  laughing  matter.  Business  is  busi- 
ness," stated  the  junior  partner  importantly. 

"More  like  charity,  with  the  Judge,  but  Uncle 
isn't  holding  him  up  for  much  this  time.  Uncle's 
getting  on  his  feet.  The  Judge  never  expected 
him  to,  and  I  didn't,  but  the  automobiles  help. 
Maggie  served  tea  before  she  went  to  Ward's, 


142  The  Wishing  Moon 

and  he's  going  on  with  it.  His  luck  has  turned. 
He's  got  the  money  to  pay  this  year's  interest  and 
half  the  back  interest  that's  due,  but  he  wants  to 
keep  it  and  put  it  into  repairs — the  roof  wants 
shingling,  and  if  we  could  fix  up  the  storeroom  for 
a  place  to  serve  tea  and  ice-cream  we  could  double 
trade.  Then,  next  year " 

"  We've  heard  too  much  about  next  year,  Dono- 
van." 

"Don't  get  tragic,  Theodore.  This  is  a  new 
proposition.  I'll  go  into  figures  with  the  Judge 
and  prove  it  to  him — don't  want  to  waste  them  on 
you.  But  he  won't  be  sending  good  money  after 
bad  this  time,  like  he's  done  too  many  times.  I'm 
as  glad  for  him  as  I  am  for  Uncle." 

"It  can't  be  done." 

"Nonsense,  Theodore.  I  won't  wait  to  see  the 
Judge  now,  but  you  tell  him " 

"It  don't  make  any  difference  what  I  tell  him. 
The  Judge  has  made  up  his  mind,  and  he  won't 
change  it.  You  can  take  it  from  me  as  well  as 
him.  You  won't  get  another  dollar  of  his  money, 
and  you  won't  get  another  month's  extension  of 
time.  We're  done  with  you." 

"I  almost  believe  you  mean  that,  Theodore." 

"As  I  said,  the  house  is  insufficient  security,  but 
for  the  sake  of  the  dignity  of  the  firm  we  must 
protect  ourselves " 


The  Wishing  Moon  143 

"I  believe  you  mean  it,  and  the  Judge  gave  you 
authority  to  say  it." 

"We  must  go  through  the  form  of  protecting 
ourselves  and " 

His  client  laughed.  "You  don't  mean  the 
Judge  wants  to  take  over  the  house.  That's 
'Way  Down  East  stuff.  If  money's  ctight  with 
him,  we'll  pay  the  interest  and  manage  some  way, 
though  I  don't  see  how.  But  the  house  would  be 
no  good  to  him  if  he  took  it,  and  he  wouldn't 
take  it  if  it  was.  I  know  the  Judge.  Don't 
let  your  imagination  get  away  with  you,  Theo- 
dore." 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  Donovan." 

"You  think  he's  going  to  take  it?" 

"I  know  he  is." 

"You  mean  that,"  his  client  decided  slowly, 
"and  you've  got  the  Judge's  authority  for  it, 
too." 

"Take  it  quietly.  It's  the  best  way,"  urged  the 
junior  partner  helpfully. 

"I  understand  that's  your  motto,  Theodore," 
said  his  client,  and  proceeded  to  take  his  advice, 
sitting  quite  still  in  the  Judge's  big  chair,  and  fixing 
a  clear-seeing  but  unappreciative  gaze  upon  the 
immaculate  folds  of  Mr.  Burr's  turquoise-blue  tie. 
He  took  the  advice  too  literally.  The  silence  grew 
oppressive  and  sinister,  and  as  if  he  found  it  so, 


144  The  Wishing  Moon 

Mr.  Burr  broke  into  a  monologue,  disjointed,  but 
made  up  of  irreproachable  sentiments. 

"This  is  hard  on  your  uncle,  Neil,  and  it's  hard 
on  you,  but  it  may  be  the  best  thing  in  the  end. 
He's  been  hiding  behind  you  too  long.  A  business 
that  can't  stand  on  its  own  feet  deserves  to  fail. 
He  can  start  new  and  start  clean.  The  Judge  has 
been  a  good  friend  to  you " 

"  Don't  explain  him  to  me.  You  don't  own  him, 
whoever  else  does,"  interrupted  the  Judge's  protege 
softly. 

"What  do  you  mean?  If  you  don't  thirik 
you're  getting  a  square  deal,  say  so." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  weep  on  your  shoulder, 
Theodore?" 

"The  Judge  is  your  friend,  and,"  Mr.  Burr  added 
handsomely,  "I'm  your  friend,  too." 

His  client  arose  briskly,  as  if  encouraged  by  this. 
"Theodore,  you  don't  want  to  tell  me  what's  back 
of  your  turning  me  down?"  he  asked.  "No,  I 
thought  not.  Well " 

"I'm  your  friend,"  repeated  Mr.  Burr,  gener- 
ously if  irrelevantly,  and  this  time  without  effect. 
His  client  had  crossed  the  room  without  another 
glance  at  him,  and  had  his  hand  on  the  knob  of 
the  Judge's  office  door.  His  manner  still  had  the 
composure  which  Mr.  Burr  had  advocated,  but  his 
face  was  very  pale,  ominously  pale,  and  his  brown 


The  Wishing  Moon  145 

eyes  were  changed  and  bright,  dangerously  bright. 
To  imaginative  eyes  like  Mr.  Burr's  he  must  have 
looked  suddenly  taller. 

Mr.  Burr  was  facing  an  unmistakable  crisis,  with 
no  time  to  wonder  how  long  it  had  been  forming, 
or  why.  He  hurried  after  the  boy  and  caught 
him  fiercely  if  ineffectively  by  the  arm. 

"You  can't  go  in  there,"  stated  Mr.  Burr  arbi- 
trarily, all  logic  deserting  him.  "You  can't. 
You  don't  know " 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  knife  the  Judge,"  his 
client  explained  kindly.  "I'm  only  going  to  find 
out  what's  back  of  this." 

"Take  it  quietly,"  was  the  ill-chosen  sentiment 
which  suggested  itself  to  Mr.  Burr.  Neil  Donovan 
swung  round  angrily,  and  paused  to  reply  to  it, 
with  fires  which  the  somewhat  negative  though 
offensive  personality  of  the  pink  young  man 
could  never  have  kindled  alight  in  his  brown 
eyes. 

"Quietly?  There's  been  too  much  of  that  in 
this  town.  I'm  sick  of  it.  The  only  friend  I've 
got  who  hasn't  got  one  foot  in  the  gutter  goes 
back  on  me  for  no  reason  at  all,  the  first  time  I  ask 
a  favour  of  him  that  don't  amount  to  picking  his 
pockets.  The  only  big  man  in  this  rotten  town 
who's  halfway  straight  since  Everard  turned  the 
town  rotten  begins  to  act  like  he  wasn't  straight. 


146  The  Wishing  Moon 

What's  back  of  it?  I'm  going  to  know.  Get  out 
of  my  way,  Theodore." 

"You  don't  know  who's  in  there." 

"I  don't  care.  I'm  going  to  know."  Disposing 
of  the  hovering  and  anxious  intervention  of  Mr. 
Burr,  and  throwing  the  door  open,  he  slammed  it 
in  the  pink  young  man's  perturbed  face,  and 
stepped  alone  out  of  the  sunshine  into  the  Judge's 
dim  little  inner  office. 

The  Judge's  friendly  littered  little  room  was  not 
so  inviting  in  working  hours  as  it  was  in  the 
hospitable  hours  of  late  afternoon.  It  was  like  a 
woman  seen  in  evening  dress  by  daylight.  But  the 
boy  who  had  invaded  it  so  hotly  unmasked  no 
conspiracy  here.  The  men  at  the  table  near  the 
one  window,  with  a  pile  of  official  but  entirely  inno- 
cent looking  papers  between  them,  had  every  right 
to  be  there.  They  were  the  Judge  and  Colonel 
Everard. 

The  great  man  looked  quite  undisturbed  by  the 
boy's  invasion,  glancing  up  at  him  indifferently 
from  the  papers  that  he  was  turning  over  with  his 
finely  moulded,  delicately  used  hands;  he  even 
looked  mildly  amused,  but  the  boy  turned  to  him 
first  instinctively,  and  not  to  the  Judge,  who  was 
peering  at  him  with  troubled  and  kindly  eyes  over 
the  top  of  his  glasses. 

"I've  got  to  speak  to  the  Judge.     I'm  sorry." 


The  Wishing  Moon  147 

He  stammered  out  his  half -apology  awkwardly 
enough,  but  the  smouldering  fires  were  still  alight 
in  his  brown  eyes,  tragic  fires  of  cowed  and  rebel- 
lious youth.  The  great  man  regarded  him  in- 
differently for  a  minute  and  then  turned  rather 
ostentatiously  to  his  papers  again. 

"Judge,  I've  got  to  speak  to  you  alone.'* 

"You  can't  just  now,  son." 

"I've  got  to." 

"Why?" 

The  Judge's  kind,  drawling  voice  was  not  quite 
as  usual,  and  his  blue,  near-sighted  eyes  were  not; 
they  were  wistful  and  deprecating,  and  rather 
tired,  a  beaten  man's  eyes,  eyes  with  an  irresistible 
appeal  to  the  race  that  is  vowed  to  lost  causes,  this 
boy's  race.  The  boy  stepped  instinctively  closer. 

"I  don't  blame  you,  sir,  but  I've  got  to  under- 
stand this  and  know  what's  behind  it." 

"Better  go  home  before  you  say  anything  you'll 
be  sorry  for,  Neil." 

"Why  did  you  go  back  on  me?" 

"You're  taking  a  sentimental  attitude  about  a 
business  matter.  It's  natural  enough  that  you 
should.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  son." 

"Why " 

The  Judge  drew  himself  up  a  shade  straighter 
in  his  chair,  and  met  the  boy's  insistent  challenge 
with  sudden  dignity,  kindly  but  judicial,  peculiarly 


148  The  Wishing  Moon 

his  own,  but  his  flashes  of  it  were  not  very  frequent 
now. 

"Neil,"  he  said  deliberately,  "I've  got  nothing 
to  say  to  you  alone.  I've  got  nothing  to  say  to 
you  at  all  that  Mr.  Burr  hasn't  said.  Is  that  quite 
clear  to  you?" 

It  was  entirely  clear.  The  Judge  had  left  no 
room  for  uncertainty  or  argument,  and  the  boy 
did  not  attempt  to  argue  or  even  to  answer.  He 
stood  looking  uncertainly  down  at  the  Judge,  as  if 
for  the  moment  he  could  not  see  anything  in  the 
room  quite  distinctly,  the  Judge's  face,  with  its 
near-sighted  blue  eyes  and  red-gold  beard  and 
thinning  hair,  or  Colonel  Everard's  clear-cut  pro- 
file. 

"Better  go,"  said  the  Judge  gently. 

"I'd  better  go,"  the  boy  repeated  mechanically, 
but  he  did  not  move. 

Colonel  Everard  put  down  his  papers  deliber- 
ately, and  favoured  him  with  a  glance,  amused 
and  surprised,  as  if  he  had  not  expected  to  find 
him  still  in  the  room,  and  was  prepared  to  forget 
at  once  that  he  was  there;  a  disconcerting  sort  of 
glance,  but  the  boy's  brown  eyes  met  it  gallantly, 
and  cleared  as  they  looked.  They  grew  bright 
and  defiant  again,  with  a  little  laugh  in  the  depths 
of  them.  The  ghost  of  a  laugh,  too,  lurked  in  the 
boy's  low  voice  somewhere. 


The  Wishing  Moon  149 

"  You're  right,  Judge.  I'll  go.  I'm  wasting  my 
time  here,"  he  said,  "asking  you  who's  back  of 
what  you've  done  to  me — when  I  know.  I  won't 
ask  you  again,  but  I'll  ask  you,  I'll  ask  you  both, 
who's  back  of  everything  that's  crooked  or  wrong 
in  this  town?  Little  or  big,  he's  back  of  it  all; 
straight  back  of  it,  or  well  back  of  it,  hiding  his 
face  and  pulling  the  wires.  He's  to  blame  for  it 
all,  for  he's  made  the  town  what  it  is. 

"  He's  got  his  hand  on  the  neck  of  the  town,  and 
got  hold  of  it  tighter,  gradual,  so  nobody  saw  it 
and  knocked  it  off;  tighter  and  tighter,  squeezing 
the  life  out.  He  never  made  a  gift  to  the  town 
with  one  hand  that  he  didn't  take  it  back  with  the 
other.  What  the  town  gets  without  him  giving  it, 
he  won't  let  it  keep.  The  whole  town's  got  his 
stamp  on  it,  grafting  and  lying  and  putting  up  a 
front.  The  whole  town's  afraid  of  him.  The 
Judge  here,  that's  the  best  man  in  town,  don't 
dare  call  his  soul  his  own.  Me,  I'm  afraid  of  him, 
too,  and  the  only  reason  I  dare  stand  up  and  say  to 
his  face  what's  said  behind  his  back  is  because  I've 
got  nothing  to  lose.  It's  him,  there " 

"Don't,  son,"  muttered  the  Judge  tardily, 
unregarded,  but  Colonel  Everard  listened  courte- 
ously, with  a  faint,  amused  smile  growing  rather 
stiff  on  his  thin  lips. 

"Him,  that's  too  good  to  speak  to  me  or  look 


150  The  Wishing  Moon 

at  me,  sitting  there  grinning,  and  reading  fine 
print,  making  out  not  to  care,  he's  back  of  it  all — 
him,  Everard." 

The  two  men,  who  had  heard  him  out,  did  not 
interrupt  him  now.  It  was  only  a  passionate 
jumble  of  boyish  words  they  had  listened  to,  but 
behind  it,  vibrating  in  his  tense  voice,  was  some- 
thing bigger  than  he  could  frame  words  to  ex- 
press, something  that  commanded  silence;  pain 
forcing  its  way  into  speech,  long  repression  broken 
at  last.  The  dignity  of  it  was  about  him  still, 
though  his  brown  eyes  flashed  no  more  defiance, 
and  he  was  only  a  shabby  and  hopeless  boy  walk- 
ing uncertainly  to  the  office  door,  and  fumbling 
with  the  handle. 

"I'll  go  out  this  way,"  he  said.  "I've  had 
enough  of  Theodore.  And  I've  had  enough  of  this 
place.  I'll  say  good  morning,  gentlemen." 

In  a  prosaic  and  too  often  unsatisfactory  world, 
which  is  not  the  stage,  no  curtain  drops  to  relieve 
you  of  the  embarrassment  of  thinking  what  to  say 
next  after  a  record  speech;  you  have  to  step  out  of 
the  limelight,  and  walk  somewhere  else.  Neil 
Donovan,  emerging  from  the  ancient  building 
which  contained  Judge  Saxon's  office  into  Post- 
office  Square  after  a  brief  interval  of  struggling 
successfully  for  self-control  in  a  dusty  corridor 
little  suited  to  such  struggles,  and  not  even  en- 


The  Wishing  Moon  151 

suring  the  privacy  which  is  wrongly  believed  to 
be  necessary  for  them,  had  one  more  appointment 
to  keep.  He  was  late  for  it  already.  He  glanced 
at  the  town  clock  and  started  off  hurriedly  to 
keep  it. 

Back  of  Court-house  Hill  another  street,  start- 
ing parallel  to  Court  Street,  rapidly  loses  its  sense 
of  direction  and  its  original  character  of  a  busi- 
ness street,  wavers  to  right  and  left,  past  a  scatter 
of  discouraged  looking  houses,  and  finally  slants 
off  in  the  general  direction  of  the  woods  at  the 
edge  of  the  town,  and  the  abortive,  sparsely  wooded 
hill  known  to  generations  of  picnickers — not  the 
elite  of  the  town,  but  humbler,  more  rowdy  pic- 
nickers— as  Mountain  Rock. 

The  street  never  reaches  it,  but  loses  itself  in  a 
grubby  tangle  of  smaller  streets,  thickly  set  with 
small  houses,  densely  and  untidily  populated,  the 
section  known  at  first  derisively  and  later  in  good 
faith  as  Paddy  Lane.  Through  the  intricate 
geography  of  this  quarter  Colonel  Everard's  only 
openly  declared  enemy  might  have  been  seen  mak- 
ing a  hasty  and  expert  way  ten  minutes  later; 
quickly  and  directly  as  it  permitted  him  to,  he 
approached  the  base  of  the  hill. 

Disregarding  more  public  and  usual  ways  of  as- 
cent, he  struck  straight  across  a  stubbly  field  that 
lay  behind  a  row  of  peculiarly  forlorn  and  tumble- 


152  The  Wishing  Moon 

down  houses  into  a  path  so  narrow  that  it  was 
hard  to  see  until  you  were  actually  looking  down 
it,  between  the  twin  birches  that  marked  the 
entrance.  He  followed  it  to  the  base  of  the  cliff 
itself.  The  belt  of  stunted  birches  and  dusty- 
looking  alders  that  skirted  the  cliff  was  broken  by 
an  occasional  scraggly  pine.  The  boy  stopped 
under  one  of  them,  leaned  against  the  decaying 
trunk,  produced  a  letter,  and  read  it. 

It  was  only  a  pencilled  scrawl  of  a  letter,  on  the 
roughest  of  copy  paper,  and  so  crumpled  that  he 
must  have  been  quite  familiar  with  it,  but  he  read 
it  intently. 

"Neil,"  it  ran,  "I'll  meet  you  Saturday,  on  top 
of  Mountain  Rock,  same  time  and  place.  I  shan't 
see  you  till  then.  I  don't  want  to.  You  fright- 
ened me  last  night.  I  don't  like  you  lately.  Be 
nice  to  me  Saturday.  JUDITH." 

Only  a  pencilled  scrawl,  but  he  knew  every  word 
of  it  by  heart,  and  of  the  burst  of  excited  speech 
in  the  Judge's  office  nothing  remained  in  his  mind 
but  the  general  impression  that  he  had  made  a  fool 
of  himself  there.  Perhaps  he  was  too  familiar 
with  Judith's  letter,  for  the  sting  he  had  found 
there  at  first  was  gone  from  the  words.  He  looked 
at  them  dully. 

"I  can't  stand  much  more,"  he  said  aloud. 


The  Wishing  Moon  153 

He  said  it  lifelessly,  and  with  no  defiance  in 
his  eyes,  stating  only  a  wearisome  fact.  He  had 
seen  the  Colonel's  face  through  a  kind  of  red  mist 
in  the  Judge's  office,  and  felt  reckless  and  strong. 
He  did  not  feel  like  a  hero  now.  He  was  tired. 

He  would  hardly  have  cared  just  now  if  you  had 
told  him  that  back  in  Judge  Saxon's  office  two  men 
who  had  not  moved  from  their  chairs  since  he 
left  them,  and  who  would  not  move  until  several 
vital  points  were  settled,  were  discussing  some- 
thing he  would  not  have  believed  them  capable  of 
discussing  at  such  length  and  with  so  much  feeling 
— the  fortunes  of  the  Donovan  family. 

He  did  not  care  just  now  for  the  little  sights  and 
sounds  of  spring  that  were  all  around  him,  the 
cluster  of  arbutus  leaves  at  his  feet,  the  faint, 
nestling  bird  noises,  sweeter  than  song,  and  the 
stir  and  rustle  of  tiny,  unclassified  sounds  that 
were  signs  of  the  pulse  of  spring  beating  every- 
where, of  change  and  growth  going  on  whether 
human  beings  perceived  or  denied  it. 

"I  can't  stand  any  more,"  said  the  boy. 

Up  the  cliff  to  his  right,  strewn  with  pine  needles 
that  were  brown-gold  in  the  sun,  a  steep  and  tiny 
trail  led  the  way  to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  his  ren- 
dezvous. Now  the  boy  crushed  Judith's  letter 
into  his  pocket,  turned  to  the  trail  with  a  sigh, 
and  began  to  climb. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THEY  won't  like  it,  Judith,"  said  Mrs. 
Randall  for  the  last  time,  as  she  slipped 
into  her  evening  coat. 

"  They?    If  you  mean  the  Colonel " 

"I  do." 

Judith,  looking  up  at  her  mother  from  the 
chaise-longue,  could  not  have  seen  the  radiant 
vision  that  she  had  adored  as  a  child,  when  the 
spring  and  the  Everards  and  the  habit  of  evening 
dress  all  returned  at  once  to  Green  River.  Mrs. 
Randall's  blue  gown  was  the  creation  of  a  Wells 
dressmaker,  but  lacked  the  charm  of  earlier  even- 
ing frocks,  anxiously  contrived  with  the  help  of  a 
local  seamstress,  when  the  clear  blue  that  was  still 
her  favourite  colour  had  been  her  best  colour, 
when  there  was  a  touch  more  pink  in  the  warm 
white  of  her  complexion,  and  before  the  tiny,  wor- 
ried line  in  her  broad,  low  forehead  was  there  to 
stay.  But  there  was  no  reflection  of  these  changes 
in  her  daughter's  big,  watching  eyes. 

"It  will  do  him  good  not  to  like  it,"  said  Judith 
sweetly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

154 


The  Wishing  Moon  155 

"Oh,  nothing,  Mamma.  Is  that  the  carriage? 
Don't  be  late." 

Minna  Randall  looked  down  at  her  daughter 
in  puzzled  silence  a  moment,  with  the  little  line 
in  her  forehead  deepening,  then  slipped  to  her 
knees  beside  her  with  a  disregard  for  her  new 
gown  which  was  unusual,  and  put  a  caressing 
hand  on  her  forehead,  a  demonstration  which 
was  more  unusual  still. 

"Your  head  does  feel  hot,"  she  said,  "but  to 
stay  away  from  a  dance  at  your  age,  just  for  a 
headache " 

"I  went  to  one  last  night." 

"  A  high  school  dance ! " 

"There  won't  be  any  more  of  them.  You 
needn't  grudge  it  to  me."  Judith  buried  her  face 
in  the  cushions,  and  lay  very  still. 

"But  the  Colonel  really  arranged  this  for  you. 
Dancing  bores  him.  He  said  you  ought  to  be 
amused." 

"  He  didn't  say  so  to  me." 

"Are  you  laughing?  I  thought  you  were  cry- 
ing a  minute  ago."  Judith  gave  no  further  signs 
of  either  laughing  or  crying.  "Judith,  what  does 
he  say  to  you?  When  you  went  with  him  to  look 
at  that  night-blooming  flower  with  the  queer  name, 
last  week,  and  were  gone  so  long,  what  did  he  talk 
to  you  about?  You  heard  me.  Please  answer." 


156  The  Wishing  Moon 

"He's  a  stupid  old  thing." 

"  What  did  he  talk  about?  " 

"I  don't  remember." 

"Judith,"  Judith's  mother  stood  plucking  in- 
effectively at  her  long  gloves,  and  looking  at  the 
motionless  white  figure,  very  slender  and  childish 
against  the  chintz  of  the  cushions,  soft,  tumbled 
hair,  and  hidden  face,  with  a  growing  trouble  in 
her  eyes,  "I  ought  to  talk  to  you — I  ought  to  tell 
you — you're  old  enough  now — old  enough " 

Judith  turned  with  a  soft,  nestling  movement, 
and  opened  her  eyes  again,  deep,  watchful  eyes 
that  asked  endless  questions,  and  made  it  impossi- 
ble to  answer  them,  eyes  that  knew  no  language  but 
their  own,  the  secret  and  alien  language  of  youth. 
Her  mother  sighed. 

"You're  the  strangest  child.  Sometimes  you 
seem  a  hundred  years  old,  and  sometimes — you 
don't  feel  too  badly  to  stay  alone?  Mollie  would 
have  stayed  in  with  you,  or  Norah." 

"No.  I  would  have  gone,  if  I'd  known  you 
cared  so  much,  but  it  won't  do  any  good  to  make 
yourself  late,  Mamma.  Father's  calling,"  said 
Judith  gravely.  Still  grave  and  unrelaxed,  she 
returned  her  mother's  rare  good-night  kiss,  and 
watched  her  sweep  out  of  the  room,  turning  the 
rose-shaded  night  lamp  low  as  she  passed. 

There  was  a  hurry  of  preparation  downstairs, 


The  Wishing  Moon  157 

her  mother's  low,  fretful  voice  and  her  father's 
high  and  strained  one  joined  in  a  heated  argument, 
and  they  started  still  deep  in  it,  for  her  father 
did  not  call  a  good-night  to  Judith.  The  street 
door  shut,  and  she  was  alone  in  the  house.  Carriage 
wheels  creaked  out  of  the  yard  and  there  was  no 
returning  sound  of  them  hi  search  of  some  for- 
gotten thing;  a  long  enough  interval  passed  so 
that  it  was  safe  to  infer  that  there  would  not  be, 
but  Judith  lay  as  her  mother  had  left  her,  as  still 
as  if  her  headache  were  really  authentic,  her 
questioning  eyes  on  the  rose-sjiaded  light. 

There  was  much  that  might  have  increased  her 
mother's  concern  for  her  in  her  face,  if  you  could 
interpret  it  fully;  sometimes  the  eyes  suggested  a 
fair  proportion  of  the  hundred  years  her  mother 
had  credited  her  with,  sometimes  there  was  dawn- 
ing fear  in  them,  and  sometimes  an  inconsequent, 
gipsy  light;  sometimes  her  soft  lips  trembled  piti- 
fully, and  sometimes  they  smiled.  Always  it  was 
a  lovely  face,  rose  flushed  and  eager  in  the  rosy 
light,  and  always  something  was  evident  which 
was  enough  to  account  for  her  mother's  concern 
and  for  more  concern  than  her  mother  was  capable 
of  feeling;  Miss  Judith  Devereux  Randall  was 
growing  up. 

Whatever  questions  occupied  her  answered 
themselves  in  a  satisfactory  way  at  last,  even  an 


158  The  Wishing  Moon 

amusing  way,  for  her  smile  had  come  to  stay  and 
her  eyes  were  dancing,  when  she  jumped  up  from 
the  chaise-longue  at  last,  turned  on  more  lights, 
opened  closets  and  bureau  drawers  all  at  once, 
dropped  various  hastily  chosen  and  ill-assorted 
articles  on  the  immaculate  counterpane  of  her 
bed,  and  began  to  dress. 

She  dressed  without  a  glance  into  the  mirror, 
and  without  need  of  it,  it  appeared,  when  she  stood 
before  it  at  last,  pulling  a  left-over  winter  tarn 
over  rebellious  curls  which  she  had  made  no  at- 
tempt to  subdue.  She  had  buttoned  herself 
hastily  into  the  dress  she  had  taken  off  last,  a 
tumbled  organdy,  and  thrown  a  disreputable  polo 
coat  over  it,  white  like  the  cap,  but  of  more  prehis- 
toric date,  but  on  her  slender  person  these  incon- 
gruous garments  had  acquired  a  harmony  of  their 
own,  and  become  a  costume  somehow.  It  might 
not  have  withstood  a  long  or  critical  inspection, 
but  it  was  not  subjected  to  one.  Youth,  in  its 
divinely  suited  garb  of  white,  regarded  itself  with 
grave  eyes  for  one  breathless  minute,  flushed  and 
coquetted  with  itself  for  another,  and  then  was 
gone  from  the  mirror.  Judith  turned  off  the 
lights  and  stole  out  of  the  room,  and  downstairs. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  dark  and  empty  house 
to  frighten  her.  It  must  have  been  fear  of  what- 
ever was  before  her  that  made  her  slip  so  softly 


The  Wishing  Moon  159 

across  the  hall,  and  tremble  and  stand  still  when 
the  door  chain  rattled.  The  door  was  open  at  last. 
With  a  soft,  inarticulate  gasp  of  excitement,  she 
stepped  out  into  the  May  night. 

Colonel  Everard  had  an  ideal  night  for  the  little 
dance  in  his  garden,  warm,  but  with  a  quiver  of  new 
life  in  the  air.  The  May  moon  was  in  its  last 
quarter,  but  lanterns  were  to  supplement  it.  But 
the  Colonel's  guest  of  honour,  pausing  at  the 
corner  of  Main  Street  and  looking  sharply  to  left 
and  right,  and  then  turning  quickly  off  it,  found 
very  little  light  on  the  narrow  and  tree-fringed 
cross-street  through  which  she  was  hurrying  now 
but  the  moon. 

It  hung  slender  and  pale  and  low  above  the 
ragged  row  of  little  houses,  and  seemed  to  go  with 
her  through  the  dark,  but  she  took  no  notice  of  its 
companionship.  The  street  was  deserted,  and 
the  tap  of  her  little  heels  sounded  disconcertingly 
loud  in  the  emptiness  of  it  as  she  hurried  on, 
turning  from  the  narrow  street  into  a  narrower 
one. 

This  street  had  only  one  real  end;  pending  the 
appropriation  needed  to  carry  it  straight  through, 
witheld  by  agencies  which  could  only  be  con- 
nected by  guess  with  Colonel  Everard,  it  led  feebly 
past  a  few  houses  which  were  nearly  all  untenanted 
and  looked  peculiarly  so  to-night,  to  a  clump  of 


160  The  Wishing  Moon 

alders  at  the  edge  of  an  impenetrated  wood  lot, 
where  it  had  paused.  Just  in  front  of  it  the  girl 
paused,  too. 

Her  small,  white-coated  figure  was  only  dimly 
to  be  seen  in  the  dark  of  the  street;  the  group  in 
the  shadow  of  the  trees  was  harder  to  see,  but  it 
moved;  a  horse  pawed  the  ground  impatiently, 
the  boy  in  the  buggy  leaned  forward  and  spoke  to 
him.  Then  Judith  started  uncertainly  toward 
him,  and  spoke  softly,  in  the  arrogant  phrasing 
of  lovers,  to  whom  there  is  only  one  "y°u"  m 
the  world: 

"Is  that  you?" 

"Is  it  you?"  the  boy's  voice  came  hoarse 
through  the  dark.  "I  thought  you  weren't 
coming.  I  waited  an  hour  for  you  yesterday  on 
the  Rock." 

"I  couldn't  help  it.  I  oughn't  to  be  here  now, 
and  I  almost  didn't  come,  but  I  thought  we'd 
have  to-night.  Neil,  you  hurt  my  hand.  Be  nice 
to  me." 

She  was  standing  close  beside  him  now,  and  they 
could  see  each  other's  faces,  white  and  strange  in 
the  dark,  but  the  boy's  looked  whiter,  and  his 
breath  came  oddly,  in  irregular  gasps.  He  held 
both  her  hands  in  his,  but  he  did  not  bend  down 
to  her,  nor  kiss  her. 

"What  makes  you  look  so  queer?     I  don't  like 


The  Wishing  Moon  161 

YOU.  Be  nice  to  me."  There  was  something 
terribly  wrong  with  the  smug  little  phrases,  or 
with  any  words  at  all  just  then,  there  in  the  heart 
of  the  silent  dark,  and  facing  the  strangeness  of  the 
boy's  eyes;  words  failed  her  suddenly,  and  she 
pulled  her  hands  away,  and  hid  her  face  in  them. 
"I  won't  go  with  you — I'll  go  home,  if  you  aren't 

nice  to  me — if " 

"You  can't  go  home  now."  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  boy's  voice  that  was  like  the  fierce 
clasp  of  his  hands,  something  from  which  it  was 
not  so  easy  to  escape.  "It  might  be  better  if  you 
hadn't  come,  better  for  both  of  us,  but  you  can't 
go  back  now.  It's  too  late.  Yes,  we'll  have  to- 
night. Get  in,  Judith." 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

GET  in,  Judith." 
"I  won't  go.     You  can't  make  me." 
The  boy  did  not  answer  or  move.     Boy 
and  buggy  and  horse — Charlie  Brady's  ancient 
chestnut  mare,  not  such  a  dignified  creature  by 
daylight,   but   high    shouldered    and    mysterious 
now  against  the  dark  of  the  grove — might  all  have 
been  part  of  the  surrounding  dark,  they  were  so 
still,  and  Judith's  little  white  figure  was  motion- 
less, too. 

Judith  stood  looking  up  at  the  boy  for  one  long, 
silent  minute.  Such  minutes  are  really  longer 
than  other  minutes,  if  you  measure  them  by  heart- 
beats, and  how  else  are  you  to  measure  them? 
Strange,  breathless  minutes,  that  settle  grave 
questions  irrevocably  by  the  mere  fact  of  their 
passing,  whether  you  watch  them  pass  with  open 
eyes  or  are  helpless  and  young  and  vaguely  afraid 
before  them;  helpless,  but  full  of  the  untaught 
strength  of  youth,  which  works  miracles  without 
knowing  how  or  why. 

"  Get  in,"  said  the  boy,  very  softly  this  time,  so 
that  his  voice  just  made  itself  heard  through  the 

162 


The  Wishing  Moon  163 

dark;  it  was  like  part  of  the  dark,  caressing  and 
hushed  and  secret,  and  not  to  be  denied.  With  a 
soft  little  laugh  that  was  attuned  to  it,  Judith 
yielded  suddenly,  and  slipped  into  the  carriage 
beside  him,  drawing  the  robe  tight  round  her,  and 
settling  into  her  corner,  all  with  one  quick,  nestling 
motion,  like  a  bird  perching. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  said  rather  breath- 
lessly, "Hurry.  Let's  go  a  long,  long  way." 

"All  right.     Don't  be  frightened,  Judith." 

"Frightened?" 

He  did  not  answer.  Charlie's  horse,  debarred 
from  its  destined  career  by  bad  driving,  that  broke 
its  wind  in  its  first  race,  but  of  sporting  ancestry 
and  unable  to  forget  it,  especially  when  Charlie's 
adventures  in  the  Green  River  under- world  cheated 
it  of  exercise  too  long,  was  remembering  it  now, 
and  bolting  down  the  hilly  little  street,  settled  at 
last  into  a  jerky  and  tentative  gait  with  the  air 
of  accepting  their  guidance  until  it  could  arrange 
further  plans,  but  remembering  its  ancestry  still. 

"Splendid,"  Judith  breathed.  " Keep  off  Main 
Street." 

"Yes." 

The  ancient  vehicle,  well  oiled,  but  rattling 
faintly  still,  swung  alarmingly  close  to  one  street 
corner  lamp-post  and  then  another.  Judith  nestled 
almost  out  of  sight  in  her  corner.  Neil  leaned 


164  The  Wishing  Moon 

forward,  gripping  the  reins  with  an  ungloved  hand 
that  whitened  at  the  knuckles,  his  dark  eyes 
looking  straight  ahead.  His  brooding  eyes  and 
quiet  mouth,  and  even  the  whiteness  of  his  face 
had  something  unfamiliar  about  them,  something 
that  did  not  all  come  from  the  unhealthy  light 
of  the  street  lamps,  something  strange  but  un- 
accountably charming,  too.  Judith  had  no  eyes 
for  it  just  then. 

"This  is  silly.  I  ought  not  to  have  come. 
Who's  that?" 

"Nobody.  Just  a  tree.  Sit  still.  We'll  go 
under  the  railroad  bridge  and  out  over  Grant's 
Hill.  There  won't  be  any  more  lights." 

"It  looked  like  some  one." 

"What  do  you  care?" 

"It  looked  like  your  cousin  Maggie." 

"  She's  at  home  in  bed.     She  was  tired  to-night." 

"Oh.  Well,  it  looked  like  her.  It  was  silly  to 
come.  I  never  shall  coine  again." 

As  if  this  were  not  a  new  threat,  or  had  for  some 
reason  lost  it  terrors  to-night,  the  boy  did  not 
contradict  her.  They  had  left  track  and  railroad 
bridge  behind  now,  darker  blots  against  the  sur- 
rounding dark,  with  the  lights  of  the  station 
showing  faintly  far  down  the  track.  They  were 
passing  the  last  of  the  houses  that  straggled  along 
the  unfashionable  quarter  above  the  railroad  track. 


The  Wishing  Moon  165 

Most  of  the  houses  here  were  dark  now.  In  the 
Nashs'  windows  the  last  light  puffed  suddenly  out 
as  they  went  by. 

Down  in  the  town  behind  them  other  sleepy 
little  lights  were  burning  faintly,  or  going  out, 
but  ahead  of  them  the  faintly  moonlit  road  looked 
wide-awake.  It  was  an  alluring  road.  It  dipped 
into  wooded  hollows,  it  broke  suddenly  into  ar- 
bitrary curves  and  windings  but  found  its  way  out 
again,  and  kept  on  somehow,  and  gradually  lifted 
itself  higher  and  higher  toward  the  crest  of  the  hill 
five  miles  away  that  you  reached  without  ever  seem- 
ing to  climb  it,  to  be  confronted  all  at  once  with  the 
only  real  view  between  Wells  and  Green  River. 

"I  used  to  think  Grant's  Hill  was  the  end  of  the 
world,"  said  Judith  softly.  "Maybe  it  is.  It's 
funny  I  can  say  things  like  that  to  you,  when  you 
only  laugh  and  won't  answer.  Listen.  Isn't  it 
still,  so  still  it  almost  makes  a  noise." 

It  was  very  still.  You  could  feel  the  pulse  of 
the  night  here.  There  was  a  whisper  and  stir 
of  life  in  the  rustling  trees  when  the  road  crossed 
some  belt  of  woods;  there  was  a  look  of  blind, 
creeping  life  about  the  clustering  shadows  in 
stretches  of  moonlight,  and  the  low-hanging  moon 
above  the  dark  fields  they  passed  was  a  living 
thing,  too,  the  most  alive  of  all.  Judith  stirred 
in  her  corner,  and  turned  and  looked  at  it. 


166  The  Wishing  Moon 

"It's  sweet,"  she  said.  "And  it's  ours.  It's 
still  May.  But  we  can't  wish  on  the  moon  now; 
it's  too  late.  And  I  don't  want  to  wish,  I'm  so 
comfortable.  Aren't  you?  Well,  you  needn't  an- 
swer, then,  and  you  needn't  hold  my  hand."  She 
had  felt  for  a  hand  that  avoided  hers.  With  a 
sleepy,  satisfied  laugh,  like  a  petted  kitten  purr- 
ing, she  settled  herself  again,  with  her  head  against 
an  unresponsive  shoulder,  and  pulled  an  unrespon- 
sive arm  round  her  waist. 

"You  aren't  as  soft  as  the  cushions — not  nearly. 
You're  pretty  hard,  but  I  like  you.  I  was  afraid  to 
come,  but  now— 

"Now  what?" 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  I'm  so  happy. 
There's  nobody  in  the  world  but  you  and  me. 
Neil,  I'm  going  to  sleep." 

"All  right.  Shut  your  eyes,  then,  and  don't 
keep  staring  at  me.  What  makes  your  eyes  so 
bright?" 

"You." 

"Shut  your  eyes." 

"All  right.     Nobody  but  you  and  me." 

They  were  really  alone  in  the  world  now,  alone 
in  the  heart  of  the  night.  Their  little  murmur  of 
talk,  so  low  that  they  could  just  hear  it  themselves, 
had  been  such  a  tiny  trickle  of  sound  that  it  did 
not  quite  break  the  silence,  and  now  it  had  died 


Shut  your  eyes  ' ' 


The  Wishing  Moon  167 

away.  Asleep  or  awake,  the  girl  was  quite  still, 
with  her  cheek  pressed  against  the  boy's  shoulder, 
and  her  long-lashed  eyes  tight  shut.  The  horse 
carried  them  over  the  moonlit  road  at  a  rate  of 
speed  that  did  not  seem  possible  from  its  strange, 
loping  gait.  The  effect  of  it  was  uncanny. 

Boy  and  girl  and  queer,  high-shouldered  horse, 
darkly  silhouetted  in  the  moonlight,  lost  to  sight 
in  the  shadows  of  tall  trees  that  looked  taller  in  the 
dark,  and  then  coming  silently  into  view  again, 
were  like  dim,  flitting  shadows  in  the  night;  like 
peculiarly  helpless  and  insignificant  shadows, 
restless  and  purposeless.  The  moon,  soft  and 
far  away  and  still,  seemed  more  alive  than 
they  did,  and  more  competent  to  adjust  their 
affairs. 

They  required  adjusting.  That  was  in  the 
watching  brightness  of  the  girl's  eyes,  fluttering 
open  once  or  twice,  only  to  close  quickly  again,  in 
the  tenseness  of  the  boy's  arm  around  her,  in  the 
set  of  his  shoulders  and  lift  of  his  stubborn  young 
chin,  in  the  very  air  that  he  breathed  uneasily, 
the  soft,  disturbing  air  of  the  May  night.  It  was 
not  a  boy  and  girl  quarrel  that  was  before  them: 
it  was  something  more.  It  was  the  strangest  hour 
that  had  come  to  them  in  their  secret  treasury  of 
strange  hours  that  were  touched  with  the  glamour 
of  black  magic  and  swayed  by  laws  they  did  not 


168  The  Wishing  Moon 

know.  It  might  be  the  darkest  hour.  It  was 
the  test  hour. 

There  is  no  sure  and  easy  way  through  such 
hours.  If  they  faced  theirs  unprepared  and  afraid, 
so  must  the  rest  of  the  world,  the  part  that 
is  older  and  counted  wiser.  But  this  could  have 
been  no  comfort  just  then  to  the  boy  t  nd  girl  in 
the  antiquated  buggy,  under  the  untroubled  gaze 
of  the  wishing  moon. 

They  were  almost  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  now. 
One  long,  upward  slant  of  road  led  straight  to  it, 
bare  of  trees,  and  silvery  in  the  moonlight.  At 
the  foot,  and  just  at  the  edge  of  a  thick  belt  of 
woods,  the  boy  pulled  up  as  if  to  rest  his  horse 
for  the  gradual  ascent.  At  his  left,  hardly  visible 
at  all  to-night  unless  you  stopped  your  horse  to 
look  for  it,  a  narrow  and  overgrown  road  led  off 
through  the  trees.  Tightening  the  arm  that  held 
her  cautiously,  the  boy  looked  down  at  the  face 
against  his  shoulder,  the  faint,  half-smile  on  the 
lips,  and  the  lightly  closed  eyes. 

The  girl  did  not  move.  Her  cap  had  slipped  off, 
and  one  small,  bare  hand  clutched  the  fuzzy  white 
thing  tight,  as  a  sleeping  child's  hand  might  have 
closed  on  some  favourite  toy.  Her  hair  showed 
silvery  blond  and  soft  against  his  dark  coat. 
With  a  quick,  hungry  motion,  the  boy  dropped 
his  head  and  kissed  it  lightly.  Then,  gripping 


The  Wishing  Moon  169 

the  reins  with  a  firmness  that  no  present  activity 
of  the  animal  called  for,  he  left  Green  River's  only 
noteworthy  view  without  a  backward  glance,  and 
turned  his  horse  into  the  road  through  the  woods. 

For  the  next  few  minutes  he  had  no  attention 
to  spare  for  Judith,  suspiciously  quiet  in  his  arms. 
He  could  not  see  her  face.  It  was  black  dark 
under  the  trees,  dark  as  if  it  had  never  been  light. 
The  track  was  wider  than  it  looked,  but  also 
rougher.  The  trees  grew  close.  Branches  that 
he  brushed  aside  sprinkled  dew  into  his  face.  The 
buggy  creaked  out  vain  protests  and  useless  warn- 
ings. Finally  moonlight  showed  at  the  end  of  the 
black  tunnel,  and  the  horse,  which  had  been  en- 
countering its  difficulties  in  resourceful  silence, 
made  a  faint,  snorting  comment  which  sounded 
relieved,  and  presently,  with  unexpected  jaunti- 
ness,  swung  into  the  road  again. 

It  was  technically  a  road,  and  it  was  the  wreck 
of  a  very  good  road,  but  it  was  not  in  much  better 
shape  than  the  track  they  had  reached  it  by. 
Aspiring  amateurs  had  sketched  it  and  camera 
fiends  haunted  it  in  their  day.  It  was  Colonel 
Everard's  favourite  bridle  path,  which  naturally 
prevented  repairs  upon  it.  But  before  the  rail- 
road went  through  it  had  been  Green  River's  only 
link  with  a  wider  world.  Now  a  better  built  but 
more  circuitous  road  had  replaced  it,  designed 


170  The  Wishing  Moon 

for  motoring.  No  motors  ever  penetrated  here, 
and  few  carriages.  It  was  left  to  the  ghosts  of 
ancient  traffic,  if  they  ventured  here.  The  glanc- 
ing moonlight  under  the  close-growing  trees  might 
have  been  full  of  them  to-night. 

But  the  boy  was  not  looking  for  ghosts  or  inter- 
ested in  the  history  of  the  road  or  its  charm,  as  he 
hurried  his  high-shouldered  horse  along  it,  still 
responding  jauntily.  He  squared  his  chin  more 
stubbornly  than  ever,  and  muttered  encourag- 
ingly to  the  horse,  and  reached  for  his  battered 
whip.  Round  this  corner,  beyond  this  milestone, 
the  stage  drivers  used  to  make  up  time  when  the 
mail  was  late.  A  generous  mile  of  almost  level 
road  curved  ahead  of  Neil  into  the  moonlight,  a 
fairly  clean  bit  of  going  even  now.  Judith  and 
Neil  were  on  the  old  coaching  road  to  Wells. 

Neil  reached  for  his  whip,  but  did  not  take  it 
out  of  the  socket.  A  small  hand  closed  over  his. 
The  head  on  his  shoulder  did  not  move,  but  dark 
eyes,  watchful  and  deliberate,  opened  and  looked 
up  at  him  quietly. 

"Now,"  said  a  cool  little  voice,  "you  can  take 
me  home." 

"You're  awake?" 

"Of  course." 

"Then  why " 

"I  waited  to  see  where  you  were  going,  and 


The  Wishing  Moon  171 

what  you  were  going  to  do,"  explained  Judith 
simply.  They  were  covering  the  banner  stretch 
of  road  at  a  rate  the  old  stage  drivers  had  never 
emulated.  Judith  pushed  Neil's  arm  away,  and 
sat  straight  and  looked  at  him.  Her  cheeks  were 
gloriously  flushed  with  the  quick  motion,  and  her 
soft,  tumbled  hair  had  broken  into  baby  curls 
round  her  forehead,  but  her  eyes  were  a  woman's 
dark,  unforgiving  eyes.  Neil  gave  her  one  furtive 
glance,  and  looked  away. 

"I  told  you  to  take  me  home,"  she  said. 

He  made  a  muttered  reply,  inarticulate,  so  that 
it  would  have  been  hard  to  tell  whether  it  was 
really  addressed  to  Judith  or  the  horse,  and  bent 
forward  over  the  reins. 

The  colour  deepened  in  Judith's  cheeks,  her 
soft  lips  tightened  into  a  straight  line  that  was 
like  her  mother's  mouth.  Her  cool,  unhurried 
voice  was  like  her  mother's,  too:  "I  knew  when 
we  started  out  I'd  have  trouble  with  you.  Now  I 
don't  intend  to  have  any  more.  I  don't  want  to 
have  to  tell  you  again.  Take  me  home." 

She  had  adopted  the  tone  which  Green  River's 
self-made  gentlewomen  like  Mrs.  Theodore  Burr 
mistakenly  believed  to  be  effective  with  servants. 
The  boy  beside  her  gave  no  sign  that  it  was  effec- 
tive with  him.  He  spoke  softly  to  the  horse  again, 
and  flicked  at  it  coaxirigly  with  the  whip. 


172  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Neil,  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  Judith  stated  pres- 
ently, with  no  sympathy  whatever  in  her  judicial 
young  voice.  "I  have  been  awfully  good  to 
you." 

"Good!" 

"Yes,  good.  I — had  to  be.  Because  I  knew 
we  didn't  have  much  time.  I  knew — this — would 
have  to  stop  some  day.  I  knew  it  and  you  knew 
it,  too.  You  always  knew  it.  Well,  I've  been 
trying  to  tell  you  for  a  long  time  that  it  had  got  to 
stop.  I  tried,  but  you  wouldn't  let  me.  We're 
both  getting  older,  too  old  for  this,  and  I'm  going 
away  next  year.  And  some  things  have  happened 
to  me,  just  lately — last  week — that  made  me  think. 
I've  got  to  be  careful.  I've  got  to  take  care  of 
myself.  This  has  got  to  stop  now — to-night.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  so.  That's  why  I  came;  be- 
cause  " 

"  I  know  why  you  came." 

"  Don't  be  cross.  Be  good,  and  turn  round  now, 
and  take  me  home.  Neil,  I'm  not  sorry,  you 
know,  for — anything.  Ever  since  that  first  night 
at  the  dance  you've  been  so  sweet  to  me.  I'm  not 
sorry.  Are  you?" 

"No." 

"How  funny  your  voice  sounds.  Why  don't 
you  turn  round?  " 

He  had  no  explanation  to  offer.     The  buggy 


The  Wishing  Moon  173 

plunged  faster  through  the  dark,  and  Judith 
braced  herself  in  her  corner. 

"Neil,  turn  round.     Don't  you  hear  me?" 

He  gave  no  sign  of  hearing.  The  horse  swung 
gallantly  into  a  bit  of  road  where  the  stage  drivers 
had  never  been  in  the  habit  of  hurrying,  a  tricky 
bit  of  road,  with  overhanging  rocks  jutting  out 
just  where  you  might  graze  them  at  sudden  turns, 
and  with  abrupt  dips  into  percipitous  hollows. 
One  stretched  dark  ahead  of  them  now.  Judith 
caught  her  breath  as  they  plunged  into  it,  and 
clutched  Neil's  arm.  He  laughed  shortly,  and 
did  not  shake  off  her  hand.  She  pulled  at  his 
wrist  and  shook  it. 

"Upset  us  if  you  want  to.  We'd  go  together," 
he  urged,  with  a  logic  not  to  be  questioned.  "To- 
gether, and  that  suits  me,  Judy." 

"Neil,  turn  round.  Neil!"  Judith's  voice  was 
shrill  with  sudden  terror  repressed  too  long,  but 
she  struggled  to  make  it  steady  and  cold  again,  in 
one  last  effort  at  control. 

"Who  do  you  think  you  are,  Neil  Donovan? 
I  tell  you  to  take  me  home." 

He  did  not  even  turn  to  look  at  her.  He  was 
getting  the  horse  down  the  rocky  slant  of  dimly  lit 
road  with  a  patience  and  concentration  which  there 
was  nobody  to  appreciate  just  then.  Judith 
collapsed  into  her  corner.  There  was  a  faint  sound 


174  The  Wishing  Moon 

of  helpless  crying  from  her,  then  silence  as  she 
choked  back  the  tears;  silence,  and  an  erect,  stub- 
born figure  showing  oppressively  big  and  dark 
between  Judith  and  the  moon. 

"Neil,  I'm  sorry.  .  .  .  Neil,  I  can't  stand 
this,"  came  a  muffled  voice.  "Please  speak  to 
me." 

They  were  on  level  ground  again,  and  the  horse 
was  disposed  to  make  the  most  of  it.  The  boy 
pulled  her  into  a  jolting  walk  which  was  not  the 
most  successful  of  her  gaits,  but  represented  a 
triumph  for  him  just  now,  and  then  he  turned 
abruptly  to  Judith,  gathering  both  her  hands  into 
his  free  hand  and  gripping  them  tight. 

"I'll  talk  to  you  now,"  he  said.  "It's  time  I 
told  you.  Judith,  you  and  I  are  not  going  back." 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

WHAT  do  you  mean?" 
"We're  not  going  back,"  he  repeated 
deliberately. 

"We  are!"  flashed  Judith 

"  We're  notgoing  back.   We're  never  going  back." 

Judith  drew  back  and  stared  at  him,  her  hands 
still  in  his,  and  the  boy  stared  back  with  a  look 
that  matched  her  own  in  his  big,  deeply  lit,  dark 
eyes.  White  faces,  with  angry,  dark  eyes,  were 
all  that  they  could  see  clearly,  though  they  were 
crossing  a  patch  of  road  where  a  ragged  gap  in  the 
trees  let  some  of  the  moonlight  through;  white 
faces  like  strangers'  faces. 

They  were  only  a  boy  and  girl  jolting  through 
the  woods  in  the  night  in  a  rattletrap  buggy  behind 
a  caricature  of  a  horse,  but  what  looked  out  of 
their  angry  eyes  and  spoke  in  their  tense  young 
voices  was  greater  than  the  immediate  issue  of 
their  quarrel,  and  older  and  wiser  than  they  were; 
as  old  as  the  world.  Ancient  enemies  were  at 
war  once  more.  A  man  and  a  woman  were  making 
their  age-old  fight  for  mastery  over  themselves 
and  each  other. 

175 


176  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Never,  Judy." 

"Where  are  we  going,  then?" 

"What  difference  does  it  make?" 

"Where?" 

"To  Wells.  We  can  make  it  by  morning.  I've 
got  the  mortgage  money  with  me." 

"Your  uncle's?" 

"Yes.  What  difference  does  that  make?  That, 
or  anything?  We'd  go  if  we  hadn't  any  money 
at  all.  We'd  have  to.  Oh,  Judith " 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  saying.  Take 
me  home.  What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"You.  You  sounded  just  like  them,  then,  giv- 
ing me  orders — just  like  your  whole  rotten  crowd, 
but  you're  through  with  them  now,  and  you're 
through  ordering  me  about  and  making  a  fool  of 
me.  I've  been  afraid  to  say  my  soul  was  my  own. 
It  wasn't,  I  guess.  But  we're  all  through  with 
that.  We're  through,  Judith." 

"Yes,  of  course.  Of  course  we're  through. 
It's  all  right.  Everything's  all  right,  Neil  dear." 

"Everything's  all  wrong,  and  I  know  whose 
fault  it  is  now:  it's  your  fault.  Maybe  I  only  had 
one  chance  in  a  hundred  to  get  on,  but  one  chance 
is  enough,  and  I  was  taking  it.  You  made  me 
ashamed  to  take  it.  I  was  ashamed  to  do  the 
work  that  was  all  I  could  get  to  do,  and  I  had  my 
head  so  full  of  you  I  couldn't  do  any  work.  Mag- 


The  Wishing  Moon  177 

gie's  better  than  I  am.  She  don't  sit  around  with 
her  hands  folded  and  wait  for  Everard  to  get  tired 
of  her.  And  the  whole  town  don't  laugh  at  her. 
The  whole'town  don't  know : 

"Neil,  I  said  I  was  sorry.     Please  don't." 

"You've  got  the  smooth  ways  of  them  all,  but 
it's  too  late  for  that  between  us,  Judy.  Smooth, 
lying  ways." 

"We  can't  go  to  Wells,  Neil  dear.  What  could 
we  do  there?  Think." 

"I'm  sick  of  thinking.  I'd  get  work  maybe. 
I  don't  know.  I  don't  care.  Judith " 

"We  can't.     Not  to-night,  Neil.     Wait.'* 

"I'm  sick  of  waiting.  I've  got  nothing  to  gain 
by  it.  I've  done  all  the  waiting  I  could.  I've 
stood  all  I  could.  You're  the  only  thing  I  want 
in  the  world,  and  I  couldn't  wait  for  you  any  longer 
if  I  could  get  you  that  way — and  I  wouldn't  get 
you.  I'd  lose  you." 

"Not  to-night.  To-morrow,  if  you  really  want 
me  to  go.  To-morrow,  truly." 

"You're  lying  to  me,  and  I'm  tired  of  it." 

"No,  Neil— Neil  dear." 

"You're  lying." 

"How  dare  you  say  that!    I  hate  you!" 

"That's  right.  We'll  talk  straight  now.  It's 
time." 

"I  hate  you.     Don't  touch  me.     You're  going 


178  The  Wishing  Moon 

to  take  me  home — you  must — and  I'm  never 
going  to  speak  to  you  again.  I  think  you're  crazy. 
But  I'm  not  afraid  of  you — I'm  not  afraid." 

The  low-keyed,  hurrying  voices  broke  off 
abruptly.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  buggy  but 
Judith's  rapid  breathing,  more  and  more  like  sobs, 
but  no  tears  came.  The  two  faces  that  confronted 
each  other  were  alike  in  the  gloom,  white  and 
angry  and  very  young;  alike  as  the  faces  of  enemies 
are  when  they  measure  each  other's  strength  in 
silence.  It  was  a  cruel,  tense  little  silence,  but 
the  sound  that  broke  it  was  more  cruel.  It  was 
dry  and  hard  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  own 
conquering  laugh,  that  the  girl  knew,  but  it  came 
from  the  boy. 

"How  dare  you  laugh  at  me.  I  hate  you!" 
Judith's  voice  came  hoarse  and  unrecognizable. 

A  hand  caught  blindly  at  the  reins;  another  hand 
closed  over  it.  Then  there  was  silence  again  in  the 
buggy,  broken  by  panting  sounds  and  little  sobs. 
At  the  end  c  .  it  Judith,  forced  back  into  her  corner 
and  held  there,  was  really  crying  now,  with  hys- 
terical sobs  that  hurt,  and  hot  tears  that  hurt,  too. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  panted.  "  I  hate  you !  You've 
got  to  let  me  go." 

"What  for?" 

"I'm  going  home.  I'm  going  to  get  out  and 
walk  home." 


The  Wishing  Moon  179 

"Ten  miles?" 

"I'd  walk  a  hundred  miles  to  get  away  from 
you." 

"  You'd  have  to  walk  farther  to  do  that."  The 
dry  little  laugh  cut  through  the  dark  again,  and 
Judith  struck  furiously  at  the  arm  that  held  her. 

"I  hate  you!"  she  sobbed. 

"No." 

"Oh,  I  do— I  do " 

"I  don't  care."  The  boy's  voice  sounded  light 
and  dry,  like  his  laugh.  "I  don't  care.  Kiss  me.'* 

"I  won't!  I  won't!  I'll  never  speak  to  you 
again.  I'll  never  forgive  you." 

"Lying  to  me — fooling  me;  taking  me  up  and 
dropping  me  like  Everard  does  to  women.  .  .  . 
You're  no  better  than  he  is.  You're  one  of  his 
crowd,  but  you're  through  with  them.  .  .  . 
Lying  to  me,  when  you  do  care.  You  do." 

"I  hate  you!" 

"Ah,  no,  you  don't." 

Little  bursts  of  confused  speech,  all  they  had 
breath  for  and  more,  disconnected,  not  always 
understood,  not  always  articulate,  but  always 
angry,  came  from  them,  with  intervals  of  silent, 
panting  struggle  between.  The  two  young  crea- 
tures in  the  buggy  were  struggling  in  earnest  now. 
The  struggle  was  clumsy,  like  most  really  signifi- 
cant ones;  sudden  and  clumsy  and  blind.  The 


180  The  Wishing  Moon 

two  figures  swayed  aimlessly  back  and  forth. 
The  boy  and  girl  were  both  on  their  feet  now. 
The  boy  had  dropped  the  reins.  Both  arms  held 
the  girl.  Her  pinioned  arms  fought  to  free  them- 
selves. 

"Judith,  you  don't  hate  me.     Say  it — say  it." 

The  two  shadowy  figures  were  like  one  now,  but 
the  girl's  arms  were  free,  pushing  the  boy  away, 
striking  at  him  impotently. 

"You  needn't  say  it.  I  know.  You  had  to 
come  to-night.  You  couldn't  stay  away.  You 
don't  hate  me.  You  never  will.  You  couldn't. 
I'm  crazy  about  you.  You're  the  only  thing  that 
matters,  if  we  should  die  the  next  minute.  Every- 
thing's all  wrong,  and  it's  not  my  fault  or  yours. 
Everything's  wrong,  and  this  is  wrong,  too,  but  I 
don't  care  and  you  don't.  Do  you?  Do  you?" 

"Neil,  let  me  go.     I  can't  breathe." 

"I  love  you." 

"Let  me  go." 

The  shadow  figures  swayed  and  then  were  still. 
The  girl's  arms  dropped.  The  little,  one-sided 
struggle  was  over.  There  was  a  long,  tired  sigh, 
and  then  silence;  silence,  and  one  shadow  face 
bending  hungrily  over  the  other  shadow  face. 
"Judith,"  the  boy  whispered  breathlessly,  "do 
you  hate  me  now?  " 

"Yes." 


"  'Judith,  you  don't  hate  me  ?     Say  it—say  it '  " 


The  Wishing  Moon  181 

"Do  you  want  me  to  let  you  go?  Do  you  want 
me  to  take  you  home?" 

"Yes,"  came  the  same  answering  whisper,  the 
faintest  and  most  uncertain  of  whispers,  but  two 
arms,  gently  freeing  themselves,  found  their  way 
to  his  shoulders,  two  hands  locked  behind  his  head 
and  drew  it  gently  down,  until  the  two  shadow 
faces  were  close  once  more,  and  lips  that  were  not 
shadow  lips  met  and  clung  together;  not  shadow 
lips,  but  hungry  and  warm  and  alive — untaught 
but  unafraid  young  lips,  ready  for  kisses  that  are 
no  two  alike  and  can  never  come  again — wonderful 
kisses  that  blot  everything  out  of  the  changing 
world  but  themselves. 

"Judith" — the  boy  lifted  his  head  at  last,  and 
looked  down  at  the  face  against  his  shoulder, 
pale  and  small,  but  with  all  the  colour  and  light 
and  life  that  night  had  taken  from  the  world  and 
hidden,  burning  undimmed  in  the  awakening 
eyes — "you  don't  want  me  to  take  you  home? 
You  don't — care  what  happens?" 

"No." 

He  could  hardly  hear  her  low  whisper,  but  her 
face  was  answer  enough,  even  for  a  boy  who  could 
not  know  what  had  touched  it  with  new  beauty, 
but  had  to  guess,  as  his  own  heart  and  the  night 
might  teach  him. 

"  No,  I  don't  care.     I  don't  care." 


182  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Judith,  you  do  love  me?" 

"Yes.     Oh,  yes." 

"You're  so  sweet,"  he  whispered,  "I  feel  as  if 
I'd  never  kissed  you  before — or  seen  you  before. 
I  love  you,  Judith." 

"Yes." 

"I  love  you  and  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?  " 

"Yes." 

"But  nothing's  going  to  take  you  away  from 
me  now." 

"Nothing." 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you." 

"I  tell  you,  I  don't  care  what  happens.  I — 
don't — care." 

"Judith!" 

Once  more  her  hands  drew  him  close;  shy  hands, 
groping  uncertainly  in  the  dark,  and  shy  lips  kissed 
him.  It  was  the  coolest  and  lightest  of  kisses, 
but  it  was  worth  all  the  others,  if  the  boy  knew 
how  much  it  promised — more  than  all  her  broken 
speech  had  promised,  more  than  any  spoken  words. 

Judith  herself  did  not  know,  but  some  instinct 
older  than  she  was  made  her  whisper:  "Be  good 
to  me.  Will  you  be  good  to  me?  " 

"Yes,  Judith." 

The  boy  answered  her  small,  shaken  whisper 
solemnly,  as  if  he  were  taking  a  formal  and  irrev- 


The  Wishing  Moon  183 

ocable  vow,  but  there  was  no  one  to  listen  to  it 
here,  and  bear  witness  to  it  as  irrevocable.  The 
girl  did  not  answer  him.  Suddenly  shy,  breathing 
quickly,  and  trying  to  laugh,  she  slipped  out  of 
his  arms. 

The  boy  let  her  go.  Some  time  before  the  trail- 
ing reins  had  been  caught  up  and  twisted  twice 
round  the  whip  socket.  He  had  done  this  instinc- 
tively, he  could  not  have  told  just  when.  He  bent 
down  and  untwisted  them  now,  rather  slowly  and 
awkwardly,  not  looking  at  Judith.  Then  he  sat 
down  stiffly  beside  her. 

"You're  tired,"  he  said,  with  new  gentleness 
in  his  voice.  He  put  an  arm  loosely  round  her 
waist  in  the  manner  of  an  affectionate  but  inex- 
perienced parent,  and  her  head  dropped  on  his 
shoulder.  "Very  tired?  " 

"No." 

"Judith,  I'm  sorry." 

"No,  I'm  sorry.  How  could  I  be  so  horrid? 
What  made  me?  Did  I  hurt  you,  dear,  with  my 
hands?" 

"You  couldn't  hurt  me." 

"Neil,  you  know  what  you  said  just  now?" 

"Never  mind  what  I  said." 

"You  said  you  didn't  want  anything  to  take  me 
away  from  you.  Well,  if  it  did,  if  anything  did 
take  me  away  from  you — now,  I'd " 


184  The  Wishing  Moon 

"What,  dear?" 

"I'd  never  forgive  you.  I  couldn't.  I'd  de- 
spise you."  This  warning  came  in  a  low,  uncer- 
tain voice,  wasted,  as  countless  warnings  have 
been  wasted  on  wiser  masculine  ears  than  the 
boy's.  "Look  at  our  moon  up  there.  It's  glad, 
I  guess — glad  about  you  and  me.  Why  don't 
you  listen  to  me?  " 

"I'm  thinking,  Judith.     I've  got  to  think." 

"You  look  very  nice  when  you  think.  Your 
eyes  look  so  big  and  still.  You  look — beautiful. 
I  could  really  sleep  now,  I  guess." 

"All  right,  dear." 

"But  I  don't  want  to.  I'm  too  happy.  How 
late  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  it's  late.  We  couldn't  get  home  now 
before  awfully  late — two  or  something.  And  the 
road's  so  narrow  here,  we  couldn't  turn  round. 
We  couldn't  go  home  if  we  wanted  to.  Could 
we?" 

"Not  very  well,  dear." 

"I'm  glad.     .     .     .     Neil." 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  thinking  now?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  do  look  beautiful.  I  don't  know  just  why. 
I  never  saw  you  look  just  like  this  before;  kind, 


The  Wishing  Moon  185 

but  years   older   than   I   am,   and   miles   away. 
Neil " 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Neil,  don't  think  any  more.     Just  love  me. 

.     .     .    I  love  you." 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

COLONEL  EVERARD'S  little  party  was 
quite  successful  enough  without  the  guest 
of  honour.  At  least,  it  would  have  seemed 
so  to  Judith,  if  she  could  have  looked  in  upon  it 
just  before  midnight.  A  distinguished  guest  of 
the  Colonel's  had  made  an  ungrateful  criticism 
of  the  inner  circle,  on  parade  for  his  benefit  only  the 
week  before  at  Camp  Hiawatha,  which  was  elab- 
orately rebuilt  now,  and  rechristened  Camp  Ever- 
ard.  He  complained  that  the  Colonel's  parties 
were  too  successful. 

"Too  many  pretty  women,"  he  said,  "or  they 
work  too  hard  at  it — dress  too  well,  or  talk  too  well 
— don't  dare  to  let  down.  You  need  more  back- 
ground, more  men  like  Grant.  You  need  to  be 
bored.  You  can't  have  cream  without  milk. 
You  can't  take  the  essentials  of  a  society  and  make 
a  whole  society  out  of  them  without  adulterating 
them.  It  won't  last.  That's  why  Adam  and 
Eve  didn't  stay  in  the  garden.  They  couldn't — 
too  much  tension  there.  They  needed  casual 
acquaintances,  and  you  need  background.  You 
can't  get  on  without  it.'* 

386 


The  Wishing  Moon  187 

"We  do,"  said  his  host. 

The  distinguished  critic  was  far  away  from  the 
Colonel's  town  to-night,  but  the  Colonel's  party 
was  all  that  he  had  complained  of;  the  thing  he 
had  felt  and  tried  to  account  for  and  explain  was 
here,  as  it  was  at  all  the  Colonel's  parties,  though  a 
discreet  selection  of  outsiders  had  been  admitted 
to-night;  the  same  sense  of  effort  and  tension,  of 
working  too  hard,  of  a  gayety  brilliant  but  forced 
— artificial,  but  justifying  the  elaborate  processes 
that  created  it  by  its  charm,  like  some  rare  hot- 
house flower. 

You  saw  it  in  quick  glimpses  of  passing  faces 
thrown  into  strong  relief  by  the  light  of  the  swing- 
ing lanterns,  and  then  dancing  out  of  sight;  you 
heard  it  in  strained,  sweet  laughter,  and  felt  it 
in  the  beat  of  the  music,  and  in  the  whole  picture 
the  party  made  of  itself  in  the  garden,  the  restless, 
changing  picture,  but  this  was  not  all — it  was  in 
the  air.  You  could  close  your  eyes  and  breathe  it 
and  feel  it.  It  was  unusually  keen  to-night,  real, 
like  a  thing  you  could  actually  touch  and  see. 

You  lost  the  keen  sense  of  it  if  you  looked  too 
closely  for  signs  of  it.  If  you  overheard  bits  of 
talk,  they  were  not  always  clever  at  all,  or  even 
entirely  gay.  Worried  lines  showed  under  elab- 
orate makeup  in  the  women's  faces,  as  if  Cinder- 
ella had  put  on  white  gloves  to  hide  smutty  fingers; 


188  The  Wishing  Moon 

indeed,  though  they  were  trained  to  forget  it  and 
make  you  forget  it,  they  were  only  so  many  Cin- 
derellas,  after  all.  Seen  too  closely,  there  was  a 
look  of  strain  about  some  of  the  men's  faces. 

There  was  a  reason  for  this  'ook  to-night,  be- 
sides the  set  of  reasons  which  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Colonel's  circle  always  had  for  looking  worried; 
living  beyond  their  incomes,  living  in  uncertainty 
of  any  income  at  all,  and  other  private  reasons, 
different  in  each  case,  but  all  quite  compelling; 
there  was  a  reason,  and  the  Colonel's  guest  of  the 
week  before  was  connected  with  it.  Others  would 
follow  him  soon,  secret  conferences  would  take 
place  unrecorded,  the  Colonel's  private  telephone 
wire  would  be  busy,  and  the  telegrams  be  received 
would  be  frequent  and  not  intelligible  to  the  casual 
reader.  These  were  the  months  before  election, 
when  the  things  that  were  going  to  happen  began 
to  happen.  Their  beginnings  were  obscure.  The 
man  in  the  street  talked  politics,  but  the  man  with 
his  hands  in  the  game  kept  still.  Even  when  they 
slipped  away  to  the  smoking-room,  or  gathered 
at  the  edge  of  the  lawn  in  groups  of  two  and  three 
that  scattered  as  their  host  approached,  the  Colo- 
nel's guests  were  not  discussing  politics  to-night. 

No  tired  lines  were  permitted  to  show  in  Mrs. 
Randall's  face.  Her  fresh,  cool  prettiness  was  of 
the  valuable  kind  that  shows  off  best  at  the  height 


The  Wishing  Moon  189 

of  the  evening,  when  other  women  look  tired. 
If  she  was  aware  of  the  fact  and  made  the  most  of 
it,  overworking  her  charming  smile  and  wide-open, 
tranquil  eyes,  you  could  not  blame  her.  It  was 
not  the  time  or  place  to  overlook  any  weapons 
you  might  have.  Whatever  duties  or  privileges 
belonged  to  the  Colonel's  inner  circle,  you  had  to 
take  care  of  yourself  if  you  were  part  of  it,  and 
you  learned  to;  that  was  evident  from  her  manner. 
It  seemed  easy  for  her  to-night.  Just  now  she 
was  sharing  a  bench  and  an  evening  cloak  with 
Mrs.  Burr,  smooth,  dark  head  close  to  her  fluffy, 
blond  one,  and  smiling  into  her  face  confidingly, 
as  if  all  that  lady's  purring,  disconnected  remarks 
were  equally  agreeable  to  her. 

"We  miss  Judy  so  much,"  she  said  sweetly. 

"I  can  see  just  how  much,  dear,"  said  Judith's 
mother  more  sweetly  still. 

"And  it's  so  long  since  she's  been  here." 

"She  has  her  school  work  to  do.  She's  just  a 
child.  She's  not  well  to-night." 

"But  I  got  the  idea  he  meant  this  to  be  her 
evening." 

"He  did." 

"There  he  is."  The  third  person  singular, 
unqualified,  could  mean  only  one  gentleman  to 
the  ladies  of  the  Colonel's  circle,  and  that  gentle- 
man was  passing  close  to  them  now,  though  he 


190  The  Wishing  Moon 

seemed  unconscious  of  the  fact.  He  was  guiding 
Mrs.  Kent  through  an  old-fashioned  waltz  with 
elaborate  precision.  His  concentration  upon  the 
performance  increased  as  he  passed  them,  and  he 
not  did  look  away  from  his  partner's  face,  though 
it  was  not  absorbingly  attractive  just  now.  The 
piquant  profile  had  a  blurred  look,  and  the  cheeks 
were  flushed  under  the  daintily  calculated  touch  of 
rouge.  Mrs.  Burr  turned  to  her  friend  with  a 
faint  but  relentless  light  of  amusement  in  her 
narrowed  eyes. 

"Edie's  had  just  one  cocktail  too  many." 

"Yes."  They  ignored  the  more  obvious  fact 
that  the  Colonel  had.  The  evening  had  reached 
the  stage  when  he  always  had. 

"He  hasn't  danced  with  you  many  times, 
Minna  dear." 

"I'm  tired  of  dancing,  but  don't  let  me  keep  you 
here,  Lil." 

"I  haven't  seen  him  dance  with  you  at  all." 

"He  hasn't  yet." 

"No?"  said  Mrs.  Burr,  very  casually. 

"No.  Lil,  I  think  Ranny  wants  you.  He's 
wandering  about,  looking  vague." 

"Don't  you  want  me,  dear?  Well,  Ranny 
always  wants  me." 

Mr.  Randolph  Sebastian,  discovering  her  sud- 
denly, gave  exaggerated  proof  of  this  as  he  carried 


The  Wishing  Moon  191 

her  off.  If  the  Colonel's  secretary  had  really  been 
recruited  from  a  dance  hall,  he  had  profited  by 
what  he  saw  there,  and  showed  it  in  every  quick, 
graceful  turn  he  made.  His  partner  was  the  type 
of  woman  that  dancing  might  have  been  invented 
to  show  off;  it  gave  her  lazy,  graciously  built 
body  a  reason  for  being,  and  put  a  flicker  of  mean- 
ing into  her  shallow  eyes  so  that  she  was  not 
floridly  pretty  any  longer,  but  beautiful.  This 
was  peculiarly  apparent  when  she  danced  with 
Mr.  Sebastian.  She  seemed  to  have  been  created 
for  the  purpose  of  dancing  with  him;  it  could  not 
have  been  more  apparent  if  their  elaborate  game  of 
devotion  to  each  other  had  been  real,  and  they 
were  really  lovers. 

Mrs.  Clifford  Kent,  suddenly  appearing  alone, 
slipped  into  Mrs.  Burr's  empty  place.  Her  dance 
with  the  Colonel  was  over.  "My  Lord's  in  fine 
form  to-night,"  she  confided  without  preliminary. 
"We're  going  to  play  blind-man's  buff  after  the 
duchess  goes  home."  The  duchess  was  Mrs. 
Grant,  the  Honourable  Joe's  wife,  still  the  first 
lady  of  Green  River,  but  the  younger  women  were 
beginning  to  make  fun  of  her  discreetly  behind  her 
back.  "He  told  me  the  tiger  story."  This  repre- 
sented a  triumph.  Getting  the  Colonel's  smoking- 
room  stories  at  first  hand  instead  of  second  hand, 
from  their  husbands,  was  the  only  form  of  rivalry 


192  The  Wishing  Moon 

about  which  these  ladies  were  frank  with  each 
other.  "I  got  it  out  of  Cliff  first,  anyway.  He 
said  he  couldn't  tell  me,  but  he  did.  I  made  him. 
Where  was  Harry  last  night?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Cliff  had  a  crowd  of  men  locked  into  his  den 
until  two,  talking.  Didn't  Harry  know  about  it?  " 

"What  were  they  doing?" 

"Just  talking.  The  Colonel  and  I  don't  know 
who  else.  I  heard  two  strange  voices,  and  I  didn't 
hear  Harry's  voice.  Didn't  Harry  know?" 

"I  suppose  so.     What  did  they  talk  about?" 

"Campaign  stuff — prohibition  or  something. 
Cliff  wouldn't  tell  me." 

"Was  Teddy  Burr  there?" 

"I  didn't  hear  him.     What  do  you  care?" 

"I  don't  care." 

"If  Harry  didn't  know,  I  ought  not  to  have  told 
you,  but  I  can't  help  it  now." 

"Edith,  don't  go.    Wait." 

"I  can't.  I  have  this  next  with  my  Lord,  too. 
I'm  going  to  sit  it  out  in  the  library  and  meet  him 
inside.  The  duchess  is  getting  jealous.  Besides, 
there  comes  the  dragon."  Judge  Saxon,  looking 
shabby  and  old  and  tired,  was  making  a  circuitous 
way  toward  them.  "Let  me  go.  Oh,  darling — " 
she  put  her  small,  flushed  face  suddenly  close  to 
her  friend's  to  ask  the  question,  and  after  it, 


The  Wishing  Moon  193 

fluttered  away  without  waiting  for  the  answer, 
leaving  the  echo  of  her  pretty,  empty  laugh 
behind — "why  didn't  Judith  come?  What's  the 
real  reason?  Has  anybody  been  making  trouble 
for  her  here?  Never  mind.  You  needn't  tell  me. 
Good-bye." 

Mrs.  Randall  closed  her  eyes  and  pressed  two 
fingers  against  her  temples  for  a  moment,  and  then 
looked  up  with  almost  her  usual  welcoming  smile 
at  Judge  Saxon,  who  had  come  close  to  her,  and 
stood  looking  down  at  her  keenly  with  his  kind, 
near-sighted,  blue  eyes. 

"Hiding?"  he  said.     "Tired?" 

"Not  hiding  from  you.     Take  care  of  me." 

"Minna,"  he  decided,  "you  little  girls  aren't  so 
nice  to  me  unless  you're  in  wrong  somehow  and 
feel  sorry  for  yourselves.  What's  the  matter? 
Where's  Harry?" 

"Inside  somewhere.  Don't  ask  me  any  more 
questions.  I've  answered  all  I  can  to-night." 

"All  right.  I'll  just  sit  here  and  enjoy  the  view 
and  keep  the  other  boys  away." 

The  view  was  hardly  one  to  promote  unmixed 
enjoyment.  The  two  settled  into  a  friendly  si- 
lence in  their  corner,  broken  by  an  occasional 
quiet  word  in  the  Judge's  intimate,  drawling 
voice.  Around  them  the  temper  of  the  party  was 
changing,  and  a  series  of  little  signs  marked  the 


194  The  Wishing  Moon 

general  change.  More  men  crowded  into  the 
smoking-room  between  dances,  and  they  stayed 
longer.  Mrs.  Grant  left  first  according  to  her 
established  privilege,  and  a  scattering  of  other 
guests  followed  her.  Nobody  seemed  to  miss 
them  or  to  be  conspicuously  happier  without  them. 
There  was  a  heavy,  dull  look  about  the  passing 
faces,  a  heaviness  and  staleness  now  about  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  the  party,  and  this,  like  the 
unnatural  excitement  which  it  followed,  and  like 
the  light,  endless  fire  of  inconsequent,  malicious 
chatter,  always  the  same,  whether  it  meant  nothing 
or  meant  real  trouble  brewing,  was  an  essential 
part  of  all  the  Colonel's  parties,  too. 

The  Judge  regarded  the  change  with  faraway 
eyes,  as  he  talked  on  in  the  wistful  voice  that  goes 
with  talking  your  own  private  language  openly  to 
people  who  cannot  answer  you  in  it. 

"Don't  need  the  moon,  do  we,  with  those  lan- 
terns? But  it  was  here  first,  and  will  be  a  long 
time  after,  and  it's  a  good  moon,  too;  quite  decora- 
tive for  a  moon." 

"I  hate  it,"  said  Mrs.  Randall,  with  a  personal 
vindictiveness  not  usually  directed  against  natural 
phenomena.  The  Judge  took  no  immediate  no- 
tice of  it.  More  guests  had  gone.  In  a  cleared 
circle  in  the  heart  of  the  lanternlight  Mrs.  Kent 
was  performing  one  of  the  more  expurgated  and 


The  Wishing  Moon  195 

perfunctory  of  her  dances  for  the  benefit  of  the 
select  audience  that  remained,  to  scattered,  per- 
functory applause.  The  motif  of  it  was  faintly 
Spanish. 

"Paper  doll,"  commented  the  Judge,  "that's 
all  that  girl  is.  You  and  Harry  are  the  best  of 
them,  Minna.  They're  a  faky  lot,  all  of  them — 
about  as  real  as  a  house  of  cards.  It  looks  big, 
but  it  will  all  tumble  down  if  you  pull  one  card 
out — only  one  card.  The  devil  of  it  is  to  know 
which  card  to  take  hold  of,  and  who's  to  pull  it 
out  if  you  haven't  got  the  nerve?  I  haven't.  I'm 
too  old.  But  it's  a  comfort  to  think  of  it.  Don't 
you  agree  with  me?" 

"I  didn't  really  hear  you." 

"Minna,  I've  known  you  since  you  were  two. 
Can't  you  tell  me  what's  the  matter?  You're 
frightened." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  minute  as  if  she  could, 
turning  a  paling  face  to  him,  with  the  mask  off 
and  the  eyes  miserable,  then  she  tried  to  laugh. 

"Nothing's  the  matter.     Nothing  new." 

"Well,  there's  enough  wrong  here  without  any- 
thing new,"  said  the  Judge,  rebuffed  but  still 
gentle.  "I  won't  trouble  you  any  longer,  my 
dear.  There  comes  Harry." 

Mrs.  Randall's  husband,  an  unmistakable  figure 
even  with  the  garden  and  the  broad,  unlighted 


196  The  Wishing  Moon 

lawn  between,  stood  in  the  rectangle  of  light  that 
one  of  the  veranda  windows  made,  slender  and 
boyish  still  in  spite  of  the  slight  stoop  of  his  shoul- 
ders, and  then  started  across  the  lawn  toward  the 
garden. 

His  wife  got  rather  stiffly  to  her  feet  and  waited, 
looking  away  from  the  lighted  enclosure,  over  the 
low  hedge,  at  the  lawn.  Her  eyes  were  dizzy  from 
the  flickering  lights.  She  could  not  see  him 
clearly,  and  the  figure  that  followed  him  across  the 
lawn  was  harder  to  see. 

It  was  a  man's  figure,  slightly  taller  than  her 
husband's.  The  man  had  not  come  from  the 
veranda  windows,  or  from  the  house  at  all,  he  had 
slipped  round  one  corner  of  the  house,  stood  still 
in  the  shelter  of  it,  seeming  to  hesitate  there,  and 
then  plunged  suddenly  across  the  lawn  at  a  queer 
little  staggering  run.  Twice  she  saw  him  stand 
still,  so  still  that  she  lost  sight  of  him  under  the 
trees,  as  if  he  had  slipped  away  through  the  dark. 

In  the  garden  Mrs.  Kent's  performance  was 
over,  and  the  game  of  blind-man's  buff  was  begin- 
ning. It  was  a  novelty,  and  acclaimed  even  at 
this  stage  of  the  evening.  Lillian  Burr's  shrill 
laugh  and  Edith  Kent's  pretty,  childish  one 
could  be  heard  through  the  other  sounds.  They 
were  trying  to  blindfold  the  Colonel,  who  struggled 
but  laughed,  too,  looking  somehow  vacuous  and 


The  Wishing  Moon  197 

old,  with  his  longish,  white  hair  straggling  across 
his  forehead.  No  one  in  the  garden  but  Minna 
Randall  had  attention  to  spare  for  an  arriving 
guest,  expected  or  unexpected. 

Which  was  he?  He  was  out  of  sight  again,  but 
this  time  she  had  seen  him  reach  the  edge  of  the 
lighted  enclosure.  Was  he  gone,  or  waiting  out- 
side, or  had  he  stepped  under  the  trellis  of  the  rose 
arbour,  to  appear  suddenly  at  the  end  of  it  and 
among  them?  Instinctively  she  kept  her  eyes 
upon  it,  though  her  husband  had  already  passed 
through.  She  was  watching  for  the  figure  that  it 
might  frame  next. 

"Harry,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  who  had  seen 
her  and  elbowed  his  way  to  her,  and  stood  beside 
her,  looking  pale  and  tired  like  herself  in  the  lan- 
ternlight  and  not  boyish  at  all,  "who  was  that 
man?  Who  was  it  following  you?" 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her  question.  He  did 
not  seem  to  hear  it.  He  put  a  hand  on  her  arm, 
and  she  could  feel  that  it  trembled. 

"Oh,  Harry,  what  is  it?"  she  said.  "I've  had 
such  a  horrible  evening.  I'm  so  afraid." 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Minna,"  he  said  very  gently, 
"but  you  must  come  to  the  telephone.  Norah's 
calling  you.  She's  just  come  home.  She  wants 
to  tell  you  something  about  Judith." 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

JUDITH?"  Mrs.  Randall  took  her  husband's 
news  quietly,  with  something  that  was  al- 
most relief  in  her  face,  the  relief  that  comes 
when  a  gathering  storm  breaks  at  last,  and  you 
learn  what  it  is  you  have  been  afraid  of,  though 
you  must  go  on  being  afraid.  "What  is  it?  Is 
she  ill,  Harry?" 

"Come  and  talk  to  Norah." 

"No,  we'll  go  straight  home." 

"But  she's  not  there,  Minna.  That's  all 
Norah'll  say  to  me,  but  she's  got  some  idea  where 
she  is,  and  says  she'll  tell  you.  Judith  isn't 
there." 

"It  must  be  nearly  morning." 

"It's  two." 

"It  was  after  nine  when  we  started." 

"Minna,  didn't  you  hear  what  I  said?" 

Mrs.  Randall's  face  had  not  changed  as  she 
heard;  it  looked  unchangeable,  like  some  fixed  but 
charming  mask  that  she  wore.  The  lips  still 
smiled  though  they  had  stiffened  slightly,  and 
she  watched  the  two  women's  attempts  to  blind- 
fold the  Colonel — unaided  now,  but  hilariously 

198 


The  Wishing  Moon  199 

applauded  by  the  circle  around  her — with  the 
same  mild,  interested  eyes,  wide-set  and  Madonna 
calm. 

"I  tell  you,  Judith's  not  there.  What  does 
Norah  know?  Why  don't  you  do  something? 
Where  is  she?  .  .  .  My  God,  look  at  them. 
What  are  they  doing  now?  Look  at  Everard." 

Mrs.  Burr  had  drawn  the  knot  suddenly  tight 
in  the  white  scarf  she  was  manipulating,  and 
slipped  out  of  the  Colonel's  arms  and  out  of  reach. 
He  followed,  and  then  swung  round  and  stumbled 
awkwardly  after  Edith  Kent,  who  had  brushed 
past  him,  leaving  a  light,  challenging  kiss  on  his 
forehead,  and  was  further  guiding  him  with  her 
pretty,  empty  laugh.  The  game  of  blind-man's 
buff  was  under  way. 

Crowding  the  garden  enclosure,  swaying  this 
way  and  that  and  threatening  to  overflow  it,  a 
pushing,  struggling  mass  of  people  kept  rather 
laboriously  out  of  one  another's  way  and  the 
Colonel's,  not  so  much  amused  by  the  effort  as 
they  were  pretending  to  be;  people  with  heavy 
and  stupid  faces  who  had  never  looked  more 
irrevocably  removed  from  childhood  than  now  that 
they  were  playing  a  children's  game. 

In  the  heart  of  the  crowd,  now  plunging  ahead 
of  it,  now  lost  in  it,  the  first  gentleman  of  Green 
River  disported  himself.  His  white  head  was  easy 


200  The  Wishing  Moon 

to  follow  through  the  crowd,  and  the  thing  that 
made  you  follow  it  was  evident  even  now — much 
of  his  old  dignity,  and  the  charm  that  was  peculi- 
arly his;  you  saw  it  in  an  occasional  stubborn  shake 
of  his  beautifully  shaped  head,  in  the  grace  of  the 
hand  that  caught  at  some  flying  skirt  and  missed 
it.  He  was  the  first  gentleman  of  Green  River 
still,  but  he  was  something  else. 

His  white  hair  straggled  across  his  forehead 
moist  and  dishevelled,  and  his  face  showed  flushed 
and  perspiring  against  the  white  of  the  scarf. 
The  trailing  ends  of  the  scarf  flapped  grotesquely 
about  his  head,  and  the  high,  splendidly  modelled 
forehead  was  obscured  and  the  keen  eyes  were 
hidden.  The  beauty  of  the  face  was  lost,  and  the 
mouth  showed  thin  lipped  and  sensual.  The 
Colonel  was  really  a  stumbling,  red-faced  old  man. 

"Look  at  him.  That's  what  she's  seen.  This 
was  Judith's  party.  That's  what  we've  hung  on 
in  this  town  for  till  it's  too  late  to  break  loose. 
We  never  can  get  away  now.  We  can't " 

"Keep  still,  Harry.  Do  you  want  to  be  heard? 
Did  any  one  hear  you  at  the  telephone?  Keep 
still  and  come  home." 

"You're  right.  You're  wonderful.  You  don't 
lose  your  nerve." 

"I  can't  afford  to,  and  neither  can  you.  Come 
Oh,  Harry,  look.  I  saw  him  following  you. 


The  Wishing  Moon  201 

What  does  he  want?  What's  the  matter?  What 
is  he  going  to  do?" 

Mrs.  Randall  had  adjusted  her  cloak  deliber- 
ately, and  turned  to  pilot  her  husband  out  of  the 
garden,  slipping  a  firm  little  hand  through  his 
arm.  Now  she  clung  to  him  and  stood  still, 
silent  after  her  little  fire  of  excited  questions.  The 
entrance  to  the  garden  was  blocked.  An  uninvited 
and  unexpected  guest  was  standing  there. 

His  entrance  had  been  unheralded,  and  his  wel- 
come was  slow  to  come.  The  crowd  had  closed 
in  round  the  Colonel,  with  Edith  Kent  caught  sud- 
denly in  his  arms,  and  giving  a  creditable  imita- 
tion of  attempting  to  escape.  Interested  silence 
and  bursts  of  laughter  indicated  the  progress  of  it 
clearly,  though  the  two  were  entirely  out  of  sight. 
Nobody  saw  the  newcomer  except  the  Randalls. 

He  stood  in  the  entrance  to  the  rose  arbour, 
clutching  at  the  trellis  with  one  unsteady  hand,  and 
managing  to  keep  fairly  erect,  a  slightly  built, 
swaying  figure,  black-haired  and  hatless.  He 
kept  one  hand  behind  him,  awkwardly,  as  a  shy 
boy  guards  a  favourite  plaything.  He  was  star- 
ing into  the  crowd  in  the  garden  as  if  he  could  see 
through  into  the  heart  of  it,  but  had  not  the  in- 
tellect just  then  to  understand  what  he  saw  there. 

It  was  the  man  Mrs.  Randall  had  seen  lurking 
in  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  but  he  was  no  myste- 


202  The  Wishing  Moon 

rious  stranger,  though  here  in  the  light  of  the 
lanterns  she  hardly  recognized  him  as  she  looked 
at  his  pale,  excited  face;  it  showed  an  excitement 
quite  unaccounted  for  by  the  perfectly  obvious 
fact  that  he  was  drunk,  and  entirely  unconnected 
with  that  fact.  Here  and  there  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  crowd  some  one  turned  and  saw  him,  too, 
and  stared  at  him.  They  all  knew  him.  He  was 
Neil  Donovan's  cousin,  the  discredited  young 
lawyer,  Charlie  Brady. 

He  did  not  speak  or  move.  He  only  stood  still 
and  looked  at  them  with  vague,  puzzled  eyes,  and 
lips  that  twitched  as  if  he  wanted  to  speak,  but 
standing  so,  he  had  the  centre  of  the  stage.  He 
could  not  command  it,  he  had  pushed  his  way  into 
it  doggedly,  uncertain  what  to  do  first,  but  he  was 
there.  One  by  one  his  audience  had  become  con- 
scious of  it,  and  were  confronting  him  startled  and 
uncertain,  too.  Young  Chester  Gaynor  elbowed 
his  way  to  the  front,  but  stopped  there,  grinning 
at  the  invader,  restrained  perhaps  by  a  lady's 
voice,  which  was  to  be  heard  admonishing  him 
excitedly. 

"Don't  you  get  hurt,  dear." 

"How  did  he  get  here?  Why  can't  somebody 
get  him  out?"  other  excited  ladies  inquired. 

"Get  Judge  Saxon,"  directed  Mr.  J.  Cleveland 
Kent's  calm  and  authoritative  voice. 


The  Wishing  Moon  203 

"Get  Sebastian.  Where  is  the  fellow?  Is  he 
afraid?"  demanded  the  Honourable  Joe  from  the 
extreme  rear.  Some  one  laughed  hysterically. 
It  was  Mrs.  Burr.  The  laugh  was  quickly  hushed, 
but  the  new  guest  had  heard  it,  though  no 
other  sound  seemed  to  have  impressed  him.  He 
laughed,  too,  a  dry,  broken  ghost  of  a  laugh,  as 
cracked  and  strange  as  his  voice,  which  he  now 
found  abruptly. 

"  Lillie,"  he  called.     "  Hello,  Lillie  dear.'* 

Mrs.  Burr  was  not  heard  to  reply  to  this  affec- 
tionate greeting,  but  he  hardly  paused  for  a  reply. 
His  light,  high,  curiously  detached  sounding  voice 
talked  on  with  a  kind  of  uncanny  fluency. 

"Lillie,"  he  urged  cordially,  "I  heard  you.  I 
know  you're  there.  Come  out  and  let's  have  a 
look  at  you.  I  don't  see  anything  of  you  lately. 
You're  too  grand  for  me.  I  don't  care.  I'm  in 
love  with  a  prettier  girl.  But  you  used  to  treat 
me  all  right,  Lillie  dear,  and  I  treated  you  right, 
too.  I  never  told.  A  gentleman  don't  tell. 
And  you  were  straight  with  me.  You  never 
double-crossed  me,  like  you  and  the  dago  Sebastian 
do  to  Everard.  Everard!  That's  who  I  want  to 
talk  to.  Where  is  he?" 

At  the  mention  of  the  name  his  wavering  gaze 
had  steadied  and  concentrated  suddenly  on  the 
centre  of  the  group  in  the  garden,  and  now,  while 


204  The  Wishing  Moon 

he  looked,  the  crowd  parted.  Pushing  his  way 
through,  the  Colonel  faced  his  uninvited  guest. 

The  great  man  was  not  at  his  best.  His  most 
ardent  admirer  could  hardly  have  claimed  it. 
He  had  pulled  the  muffling  scarf  down  from  his 
eyes,  but  was  still  tearing  at  the  knot  impatiently. 
Mrs.  Kent  had  come  fluttering  ineffectively  after 
him,  catching  at  his  arm.  He  struck  her  hands 
away,  and  pushed  her  back,  addressing  her  with  a 
lack  of  ceremony  which  outsiders  were  not  often 
permitted  to  hear  him  employ  toward  a  member 
of  his  favoured  circle. 

"Keep  out  of  this,  Edith,  and  you  keep  quiet, 
Lil.  You  girls  make  me  sick,"  he  snapped. 
"Half  the  trouble  in  this  town  comes  because  you 
can't  learn  to  hold  your  tongues.  You'd  better 
learn.  You're  going  to  pay  for  it  if  you  don't,  and 
don't  you  lose  sight  of  that.  Well,  Brady,  what 
does  this  mean  ?  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

The  ring  of  authority  was  in  his  voice  again, 
as  if  he  had  called  it  back  by  sheer  will  power. 
He  had  stepped  forward  alone,  and  stood  looking 
up  at  his  guest,  still  framed  in  the  sheltering  trel- 
lis, and  his  blurred  eyes  cleared  and  grew  keen  as 
he  looked,  regarding  him  indifferently,  like  some 
refractory  but  mildly  amusing  animal.  His  guest's 
defiant  eyes  avoided  his,  and  the  ineffective,  sway- 
ing figure  seemed  to  shrink  and  droop  and  grow 


The  Wishing  Moon  205 

smaller,  but  it  was  a  dignified  figure  still  and  a 
dangerous  one.  There  was  the  snarling  menace 
of  impotent  but  inevitable  rebellion  about  it,  of 
men  who  fight  on  with  their  backs  against  the  wall; 
a  menace  that  was  not  new  born  to-night,  but 
the  gradual  growth  of  years,  just  the  number  of 
years  that  the  Colonel  had  spent  in  Green  River. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  stammered  his  guest. 

"Then  apologize  and  get  out." 

"I  can't." 

"I  think  you'll  find  you  can,  Brady." 

"I  can't.     I've  got  to  ask  you  a  few  questions." 

They  seemed  to  be  slow  in  framing  themselves. 
There  was  a  little  pause,  the  kind  of  pause  that 
for  no  apparent  reason  deprives  you  for  the  mo- 
ment of  any  desire  to  move  or  speak.  The  un- 
assuming figure  of  the  young  man  under  the  trel- 
lis stood  still,  swaying  only  slightly  from  side  to 
side.  A  deprecating  smile  appeared  on  his  lips, 
as  if  his  errand  were  distasteful  to  him  and  he 
wished  to  apologize  for  it.  Gradually  the  smile 
faded  and  the  eyes  grew  steady  again  and  unnatur- 
ally bright.  He  held  himself  stiffly  erect  where  he 
stood  for  a  moment,  took  a  few  lurching  steps  for- 
ward, paused,  and  then  plunged  suddenly  across  the 
garden  toward  Colonel  Everard. 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  tell  which  came  first, 
the  little,  stumbling  run  forward,  the  Colonel's 


206  The  Wishing  Moon 

instinctive  move  to  check  it,  the  stampede  of  the 
devotees  of  the  time-honoured  game  of  blind-man's 
buff,  acting  now  with  a  promptness  and  sponta- 
neity which  they  had  not  displayed  in  that  game, 
Lillian  Burr's  hysterical  scream,  the  snarling  words 
from  the  Colonel  that  silenced  it,  or  the  quick 
flash  of  metal.  It  had  all  happened  at  once. 
But  now,  in  an  amphitheatre  of  scared  faces,  as 
far  behind  as  the  limits  of  the  garden  enclosure 
would  allow,  Mr.  Brady  and  his  host  stood  facing 
each  other  alone,  and  the  Colonel,  now  entirely  him- 
self, with  the  high  colour  fading  out  of  his  cheeks, 
was  looking  with  cool  and  unwavering  eyes  straight 
into  the  barrel  of  Mr.  Brady's  revolver. 

It  was  a  clumsy,  old-fashioned  little  weapon. 
Brady's  thin  hand  grasped  it  firmly,  as  if  some 
stronger  hand  than  his  own  were  steadying  his. 
He  laughed  an  ineffective  laugh,  like  a  boastful 
boy's,  but  there  was  a  threat  in  it,  too. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?  I'll 
give  you  a  chance  to  say  it,"  he  stated  magnani- 
mously, "but  you  shan't  say  a  word  against  her. 
She  was  always  a  good  girl.  She  is  a  good  girl. 
What  have  you  done  with  her?  Where  is  she?" 

"You  don't  make  yourself  altogether  clear, 
Brady,"  said  the  Colonel  smoothly. 

"Where's  Maggie?" 

"  Maggie?  "     The  Colonel's  eyes  swept  the  circle 


The  Wishing  Moon  207 

of  his  guests  deliberately,  as  if  to  assure  himself 
that  no  lady  of  that  name  was  among  them. 

"Maggie.  You  know  the  name  well  enough." 
The  sound  of  it  seemed  to  give  the  lady's  champion 
new  courage;  it  flamed  in  his  eyes,  hot,  and  quick 
to  burn  itself  out,  but  while  it  lasted,  even  a  gen- 
tleman who  had  learned  to  face  drawn  revolvers 
as  indifferently  as  the  Colonel  might  do  well  to  be 
afraid  of  him.  "  Maggie's  missing.  I'm  going  to 
find  her.  That's  all  I  want  of  you.  I  won't  ask 
you  who's  worked  on  her  and  made  a  fool  of  her. 
I  won't  ask  you  how  far  she's  been  going.  But  I 
want  her  back  before  the  whole  town  knows.  I 
want  to  find  her  and  find  her  quick.  She's  a  good 
girl  and  a  decent  girl.  She's  going  to  keep  her 
good  name.  She's  coming  home." 

"Commendable,"  said  the  Colonel,  not  quite 
smoothly  enough.  His  guest  was  past  listening 
to  him. 

"Maggie.  That's  all  I  want.  You're  getting 
off  easy.  Luck's  with  you.  I've  stood  a  lot  from 
you,  the  same  as  the  town  has.  It  will  stand  a  lot 
more,  and  I  will.  Get  Maggie  back.  Get  her 
back  and  give  her  to  me  and  leave  her  alone,  and 
I'll  eat  out  of  your  hand  and  starve  when  you  don't 
feed  me,  the  same  as  the  rest" — he  came  two 
wavering  steps  nearer,  and  dropped  his  voice  to  a 
dry  quaver  meant  to  be  confidential,  a  grotesque 


208  The  Wishing  Moon 

and  sinister  parody  of  a  confidence — "the  rest, 
that  don't  know  what  I  know." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  won't  tell.  Don't  be  afraid.  A  gentleman 
don't  tell,  and  there's  nobody  that  can  but  me. 
Young  Neil  don't  know.  The  luck's  with  you,  sir, 
just  the  same  as  it  always  was." 

"I've  had  enough  of  this.  Get  home,  Brady," 
cried  the  Colonel,  in  a  voice  that  was  suddenly 
wavering  and  high,  like  an  old  man's,  but  his 
guest  only  smiled  and  nodded  wisely,  beginning  to 
sway  as  he  stood,  but  still  gripping  the  clumsy  re- 
volver tight. 

"Just  the  same  as  it  was  when  old  Neil  Dono- 
van died." 

"  Get  home,"  shrilled  the  Colonel  again,  but  his 
guest  pursued  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts  untroubled, 
still  with  the  look  of  an  amiably  disposed  fellow- 
conspirator  on  his  weak  face,  a  maddening  look, 
even  if  his  words  conveyed  no  sting  of  their  own. 

"Neil  Donovan,"  he  crooned,  "my  father's  own 
half-brother,  and  a  good  uncle  to  me,  and  a  gen- 
tleman, too.  He  sold  rum  over  a  counter,  but  he 
was  a  gentleman,  for  he  didn't  talk  too  much.  A 
gentleman  don't  tell." 

But  the  catalogue  of  his  uncle's  perfections, 
whether  in  place  here  or  not,  was  to  proceed  no 
further.  The  audience  pressed  closer,  as  eager  to 


The  Wishing  Moon  209 

look  on  at  a  fight  as  it  was  to  keep  out  of  one. 
There  was  a  new  and  surprising  development  in 
this  one.  The  two  men  had  closed  with  each 
other,  and  it  was  not  the  half-crazed  boy  who  had 
made  the  attack,  but  the  Colonel  himself. 

It  was  a  sudden  and  awkward  attack,  and  there 
was  something  stranger  about  it  still.  The  Colonel 
was  angry.  He  had  tried  to  knock  the  weapon 
out  of  the  boy's  hand,  failed,  and  tried  instinctively, 
still,  to  get  possession  of  it,  but  he  was  not  making 
an  adequate  and  necessary  attempt  to  disarm 
him,  he  was  no  longer  adequate  or  calm.  He  was 
angry,  suddenly  angry  with  the  poor  specimen 
of  humanity  that  was  making  its  futile  attempt 
at  protest  and  rebellion,  as  if  it  were  an  equal  and 
an  enemy.  His  face  was  distorted  and  his  eyes 
were  dull  and  unseeing.  His  breath  came  in 
panting  gasps,  and  he  made  inarticulate  little 
sounds  in  his  throat.  He  struck  furious  and  badly 
directed  blows. 

It  was  a  curious  thing  to  see,  in  the  heart  of  the 
great  man's  admiring  circle,  at  the  climax  of  his 
most  successful  party  of  the  year.  It  did  not  last 
long.  The  two  struggling  figures  broke  away  from 
each  other,  and  the  boy  staggered  backward  and 
stood  with  the  revolver  still  in  his  hand.  He  was 
a  little  sobered  by  the  struggle,  and  a  little  weak- 
ened by  it,  pale  and  dangerous,  with  a  fanatic 


210  The  Wishing  Moon 

light  in  his  eyes.  Some  one  who  had  an  eye  for 
danger  signals,  if  the  Colonel  had  not,  had  made 
his  unobtrusive  way  forward,  and  joined  him  now. 
He  was  not  the  most  formidable  looking  of  allies, 
but  he  stood  beside  them  as  if  he  had  a  right  to  be 
there,  and  the  Colonel  turned  to  him  as  if  he  recog- 
nized it. 

"Hugh,  you  heard  what  he  said?"  he  appealed; 
"you  heard?" 

"Judge,  you  keep  out  of  this,"  Brady  called, 
"keep  out,  sir." 

Judge  Saxon,  keeping  a  casual  hand  on  his 
most  prominent  client's  arm,  stood  regarding  Mr. 
Brady  with  mild  and  friendly  blue  eyes.  He  had 
quite  his  usual  air  of  being  detached  from  his 
surroundings,  but  benevolently  interested  in  them. 

"Charlie,"  he  said,  as  if  he  were  recognizing  Mr. 
Brady  for  the  first  time  at  this  critical  moment, 
and  deriving  pleasure  from  it.  "Why,  Charlie," 
his  voice  became  gently  reproachful,  but  remained 
friendly,  too.  "Everard,  this  boy  don't  mean  a 
word  he  says,"  he  went  on,  with  conviction,  "he's 
excited  and  you're  excited,  too.  This  is  a  pretty 
poor  time  for  you  to  get  excited,  Everard." 

"You're  right,  Hugh,"  muttered  the  Judge's 
most  prominent  client  thickly;  "you're  right. 
Get  him  away.  Get  him  home." 

"He's  a  good  boy,"  pronounced  the  Judge. 


The  Wishing  Moon  211 

It  was  not  the  obvious  description  of  Mr.  Brady 
just  at  that  moment.  There  was  only  friendly 
amusement  in  the  Judge's  drawling  voice  and 
shrewd  eyes,  but  back  of  it,  unmistakably  there, 
was  something  that  made  every  careless  word 
worth  listening  to.  Mr.  Brady  was  resisting  it. 
His  face  worked  pitifully. 

"Judge,  I  told  you  to  keep  out.  I  don't  want 
to  hurt  you." 

"Thanks,  Charlie." 

"Every  word  I  say  is  God's  truth,  Judge." 

The  Judge  did  not  contradict  this  sweeping 
statement.  He  was  studying  Mr.  Brady's  weapon 
with  some  interest.  "Your  uncle's,"  he  com- 
mented, pleased.  "Why,  I  didn't  know  you  still 
owned  that  thing,  Charlie." 

"  I  want  Maggie.     I  want — 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  want,"  offered  the  Judge, 
amicably,  "you  want  to  hand  that  thing  to  me, 
and  go  home." 

Mr.  Brady  received  this  suggestion  in  silence,  a 
silence  which  left  his  audience  uncertain  how  deeply 
he  resented  it.  Indeed,  they  were  painfully  un- 
certain, and  showed  it.  Bits  of  advice  reached 
the  Judge's  ears,  contradictory,  though  much  of  it 
sound,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it.  He  only 
smiled  his  patient  and  wistful  smile  and  waited, 
like  a  man  who  knew  what  would  happen  next. 


The  Wishing  Moon 

"Hand  it  to  me,"  he  repeated  gently. 

"I  won't,  Judge."  Mr.  Brady's  weapon  wav- 
ered, and  then  steadied  itself.  His  thin  body 
trembled.  The  fanatic  light  in  his  eyes  blazed 
bright.  The  excitement  which  had  gripped  him, 
too  keen  to  last  long,  reached  its  climax  now  in  one 
last  burst  of  hysterical  speech. 

"He's  a  liar  and  a  thief,"  he  asserted,  uncontra- 
dicted.  He  was  not  to  be  contradicted.  There 
was  a  dignity  of  its  own  about  the  hysterical  indict- 
ment, grotesque  as  it  was,  an  unforgettable  sug- 
gestion of  truth.  "He's  a  thief  and  a  murderer, 
too.  I  don't  have  to  tell  what  I  know.  Every- 
body knows.  You  all  know,  all  of  you,  and  you 
don't  dare  to  tell.  He's  murdering  the  town." 

The  high,  screaming  voice  broke  off  abruptly. 
Mr.  Brady,  still  with  the  echo  of  his  big  words  in 
his  ears  and  apparently  dazed  by  it,  stood  looking 
blankly  into  the  Judge's  steady  and  friendly  eyes. 

"I  can't — I  won't "  he  stammered. 

"  Hand  it  to  me,"  said  the  Judge,  as  if  no  inter- 
ruption had  occurred.  For  a  moment  the  boy 
before  him  looked  too  dull  and  dazed  to  obey  or  to 
hear.  Then,  as  suddenly  as  if  some  unseen  hand 
had  struck  it  out  of  his,  the  revolver  dropped  to 
the  ground,  and  he  collapsed,  sobbing  heartbrok- 
enly,  into  the  Judge's  arms. 

He  was  a  heroic  figure  no  longer.     The  alien 


The  Wishing  Moon  213 

forces  that  made  him  one  had  deserted  him 
abruptly,  and  he  looked  unworthy  of  their  support 
already,  only  an  inconsiderable  creature  of  jangled 
nerves  and  hysterical  speech,  which  would  be  dis- 
credited if  you  looked  at  him,  even  if  it  still  echoed 
in  your  ears.  The  Judge,  holding  him  and  quieting 
him,  looked  allied  with  him,  humble  and  discred- 
ited, too.  The  relieved  audience  hung  back  for 
a  moment,  taking  in  the  full  force  of  the  picture, 
before  it  broke  ranks  to  crowd  round  the  Colonel 
and  offer  him  belated  support.  The  Colonel  said  a 
few  inaudible  words  to  Judge  Saxon,  and  then 
turned  from  him  and  his  protege  with  the  air  of 
washing  his  hands  of  the  whole  affair.  He  looked 
surprisingly  unruffled  by  it,  even  stimulated  by  it. 
The  interruption  to  his  party  was  over. 

It  ended  as  it  had  begun,  the  most  successful 
party  of  the  year.  Mr.  Brady's  invasion  was  not 
the  first  unscheduled  event  which  had  enlivened  a 
party  at  the  Birches.  There  was  more  open  and 
general  speculation  about  the  fact  that  the  Ran- 
dalls left  immediately  after,  did  not  linger  over 
their  good-nights,  and  were  obviously  not  per- 
mitted by  their  host  to  do  so. 

Mrs.  Randall,  leaning  back  in  her  corner  with 
her  hand  tight  in  Harry's,  and  her  long-lashed 
eyes,  that  were  like  Judith's,  tightly  shut,  showed 


214  The  Wishing  Moon 

the  full  strain  of  the  evening  in  her  pale  face.  She 
was  a  woman  who  did  not  look  tired  easily,  but  she 
was  also  a  woman  who  could  not  afford  to  look 
tired. 

There  was  no  appeal  or  charm  about  her  pale 
face  now,  only  a  naked  look  of  hardness  and  strain. 
Her  husband,  staring  straight  ahead  of  him  with 
troubled  eyes,  and  his  weak,  boyish  mouth  set 
in  a  hard,  worried  line,  spoke  rapidly  and  discon- 
nectedly not  of  Judith,  or  the  Colonel's  ominous 
coldness  to  him,  but  of  Mr.  Brady. 

"Maggie's  a  bad  lot,"  he  was  explaining  for 
approximately  the  fifth  time  as  they  whirled  into 
the  drive  and  under  their  own  dark  windows. 
"She  always  was.  Everard  isn't  making  away 
with  the  belle  of  Paddy  Lane.  Not  yet.  He's 
not  that  far  down.  But  that  dope  about  old 
Neil  Donovan ' 

"Oh,  Harry,  hush,"  his  wife  said,  "here  we 
are.  What  do  you  care  about  Brady?  " 

"Nothing,"  he  whispered,  his  arm  tightening 
round  her  as  he  lifted  her  down.  "I  don't  care 
about  anything  in  the  world  but  Judith." 

"Neither  do  I.  Not  really,"  she  said  in  a 
hurried,  shaken  voice  that  was  not  like  her  own, 
"you  believe  that,  don't  you,  Harry?" 

He  did  not  answer.  Gathering  up  her  skirts, 
she  followed  him  silently  to  the  front  of  the  house, 


The  Wishing  Moon  215 

single  file  along  the  narrow  boardwalk,  not  yet 
taken  up  for  the  summer,  creaking  loudly  under 
their  feet. 

"Look,"  she  whispered,  catching  at  his  arm. 
The  front  of  the  house  was  dark  except  for  two 
lights,  a  flickering  lamp  that  was  being  carried 
nearer  to  them  through  the  hall,  and  a  soft,  shaded 
light  that  showed  at  a  bedroom  window.  The 
window  was  Judith's.  He  fumbled  for  his  key, 
but  the  door  opened  before  them.  Norah,  her 
forbidding  face  more  militant  than  ever  in  the 
flickering  light  of  the  kerosene  hand-lamp  she  held, 
her  white  pompadour  belligerently  erect,  and  her 
brown  eyes  maliciously  alight,  peered  at  them 
across  the  door  chain,  and  then  gingerly  admitted 
them. 

"It's  a  sweet  time  of  night  to  be  coming  home 
to  the  only  child  you've  got,"  she  commented, 
"why  do  you  take  the  trouble  to  come  home  at 
all?" 

It  was  a  characteristic  greeting  from  her.  If  it 
had  not  been,  Mrs.  Randall  would  not  have  re- 
sented it  now.  She  clutched  at  the  old  woman's 
unresponsive  shoulder. 

"Where  is  she?"  she  demanded  breathlessly. 

"Judith  is  it  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"How  should  I  know  how  she  spends  her  even- 


216  The  Wishing  Moon 

ings?  At  some  of  the  girls'  to-night.  Rena 
Drew's  maybe.  I  don't  know.  It's  a  new  thing 
for  you  to  care.  She  was  late  in,  and  it's  no 
wonder  I  was  worried.  She's  like  my  own  to  me. 
But  she  needs  her  sleep  now.  You'd  better  go 
softly  upstairs." 

"Do  you  mean  she's  here?" 

"What  is  it  to  you?"  Norah,  one  bony  hand 
clutching  the  newel  post  as  if  it  were  a  negotiable 
weapon  of  defense,  and  her  brown  eyes  flashing 
as  if  she  were  capable  of  using  any  weapon  for 
Judith,  barred  the  way  up  the  stairs. 

"I  tell  you,  she  needs  her  sleep,  poor  lamb — poor 
lamb,"  she  said,  "and  you're  not  to  go  near  her 
to-night.  You're  to  promise  me  that.  But  she's 
here  fast  enough.  My  lamb  is  safe  at  home  in  her 
own  bed." 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

ON  AN  afternoon  in  June  a  year  later  than 
the  interrupted  party  at  the  Everards'  a 
young  man  sat  at  Mr.  Theodore  Burr's 
desk  in  Judge  Saxon's  outer  office.  It  was  still 
technically  Mr.  Burr's  desk,  but  the  young  man 
looked  entirely  at  home  there.  A  litter  of  papers 
which  that  fastidious  gentleman  would  never  have 
permitted  himself  now  covered  it,  and  the  air  was 
faintly  scented  with  the  smoke  of  a  cigarette  widely 
popular  in  Green  River,  but  not  with  devotees  of 
twenty-five-cent  cigars,  like  Mr.  Burr.  The  bulky 
volume  open  on  the  desk  was  thumbed  and  used 
as  Mr.  Burr  had  never  used  any  book  that  looked 
or  was  so  heavy.  The  book  was  Thayer  on  Con- 
stitutional Law,  and  the  young  man  dividing  his 
attention  between  it  and  Main  Street  under  his 
window  flooded  with  June  sunshine  was  Neil 
Donovan. 

He  divided  his  attention  unequally,  as  Main 
Street  late  on  that  sunny  afternoon  might  per- 
suade the  most  studious  of  young  men  to  do.  The 
square  was  crowded — crowded,  it  is  true,  much  as  a 
busy  street  on  the  stage  is  crowded,  where  the 

217 


218  The  Wishing  Moon 

same  overworked  set  of  supers  pass  and  repass. 
The  group  of  bareheaded  girls  now  pacing  slowly 
by  arm  in  arm  under  the  window  were  returning 
from  what  was  approximately  their  fourth  visit 
that  afternoon  to  the  post-office,  the  ice-cream 
parlours,  the  new  gift  shop  and  tea-room,  or  some 
kindred  attraction.  The  Nashes'  new  touring 
car,  driven  by  the  prettiest  girl  in  Willard's  June 
house  party,  under  the  devoted  instruction  of 
Willard  himself,  was  whirling  through  the  shop- 
ping district  for  at  least  the  third  time. 

However,  it  was  an  imposing  pageant  enough, 
though  the  boy  at  the  window  did  not  appear  to 
find  it  so,  regarding  it  with  approving  but  grave 
eyes,  and  returning  Mr.  Nash's  flourishing  salute 
unsmilingly — a  brave  pageant  of  gay  and  flimsy 
gowns,  of  youth  returning  to  the  town,  and  move- 
ment and  colour,  and  June  fairly  begun. 

June  so  far  was  like  other  Junes  in  Green  River. 
Colonel  Everard  and  the  season  of  social  and  polit- 
ical intrigues  were  here.  Rallies  in  the  town  hall 
would  soon  begin.  Men  with  big  names  in  state 
politics  would  make  speeches  there,  while  the 
Colonel  presided  with  his  usual  self-effacing  charm, 
which  did  not  advertise  the  known  fact  that  he 
was  a  bigger  power  in  the  state  than  any  of  them. 
The  good  old  question  of  prohibition  was  the  chief 
issue,  as  usual;  discreet  representatives  of  the 


The  Wishing  Moon  219 

people  would,  according  to  a  catch  phrase  at  the 
capital,  vote  for  prohibition,  and  then  go  round 
to  the  best  hotel  and  get  drunk;  and  discreet  poli- 
ticians, like  the  Colonel,  would  make  money  out  of 
both  these  facts  in  their  own  way. 

Behind  the  closed  door  of  Judge  Saxon's  office 
low-keyed,  monotonous  voices  were  talking,  and  a 
secret  conference  was  going  on.  Troubled  times 
were  here  again  for  those  deep  in  the  Colonel's 
councils.  They  were  never  sure  of  a  permanent 
place  there,  but  always  on  the  watch  for  one  of  his 
sudden  changes  of  front,  which  threatened  not 
only  his  enemies  but  his  friends.  But  he  had  re- 
covered and  held  their  confidence  before,  and  he 
could  this  year. 

All  scandals  of  the  year  before  were  decently 
hidden.  Maggie  Brady  was  missing  and  con- 
tinued to  be  missing.  By  this  time  it  was  the 
general  verdict  that  she  had  always  been  bound 
to  come  to  a  bad  end,  and  Charlie  Brady  to  drink 
himself  to  death.  Nobody  interrupted  his  at- 
tempts to  do  so.  His  drunken  outburst  of  speech 
had  echoed  a  growing  sentiment  in  the  town,  but 
it  grew  slowly,  for  under  its  thin  veneer  of  sophis- 
tication Green  River  was  only  a  New  England 
town  still,  conservative  and  slow  to  change. 

Green  River  had  not  changed  much  in  a  year, 
but  Neil  Donovan's  fortunes  had.  Nobody 


220  The  Wishing  Moon 

knew  the  full  history  of  the  change  except  Neil, 
but  others  could  have  thrown  sidelights  upon  it, 
among  them  Mrs.  Randall's  second  maid,  Mollie. 
On  the  morning  after  that  same  party  of  the  Colo- 
nel's, which  Mr.  Brady  attended  so  unexpectedly, 
and  Judith  did  not  attend,  Mollie  opened  the 
Randalls'  door  to  an  early  caller. 

Even  in  curl  papers,  she  was  usually  too  much 
for  the  young  man  now  on  the  doorstep.  He  was 
in  the  habit  of  looking  at  his  boots  and  addressing 
them  instead  of  her,  and  Mollie  quite  understood 
that,  for  they  were  shabby  boots.  They  looked 
shabbier  than  ever  to-day,  and  so  did  his  shiny 
coat,  but  his  eyes  were  steady  and  clear,  and  there 
was  clear  colour  in  his  cheeks,  as  if  he  had  had  the 
only  restful  and  well-earned  sleep  in  Green  River. 

"Miss  Judith,"  he  said. 

"Not  at  home,"  said  Mollie,  in  a  manner  suc- 
cessfully copied  from  French  maids  in  the  ten, 
twenty,  thirties. 

"Nonsense.  Her  curtains  aren't  up,"  replied 
the  young  man  who  was  usually  made  speechless 
by  it. 

"She's  asleep,"  conceded  Mollie,  in  a  manner 
more  colloquial  but  also  more  forbidding.  "She 
don't  want  to  see  you." 

Mollie  was  incapable  of  interpreting  Judith's 
wishes,  but  the  young  man  was  not;  his  smile 


The  Wishing  Moon 

conveyed  this,  though  it  was  friendly  enough. 
"When  Miss  Judith  gets  up,  tell  her " 

"I  tell  you  she  don't  want  to  see  you,"  snapped 
Mollie  in  a  tone  any  French  maid  would  have  de- 
plored. "She  don't  want  to  see  anybody." 

"Tell  her  that  I'll  call  again  at  three  this  after- 
noon," directed  the  young  man  calmly,  and  com- 
pleted his  disturbing  effect  upon  Mollie  by  turn- 
ing and  walking  briskly  away  without  a  backward 
glance,  and  without  his  usual  air  of  self-conscious- 
ness when  her  eyes  were  upon  him.  He  carried 
his  shabby  coat  with  an  air,  and  held  his  head  high, 
and  swung  out  of  sight  down  the  sleepy  little 
street  as  if  he  were  the  only  wide-awake  thing  in 
the  whole  sunny,  sleepy  town. 

It  was  a  disconcerting  moment  for  Mollie  or 
any  lady  properly  conscious  of  her  power,  and 
sorry  to  see  a  sign  of  it  disappear,  even  the  hum- 
blest of  signs.  It  would  still  have  been  disconcert- 
ing, if  she  could  have  foreseen  that  Judith  would 
not  receive  this  young  man  alone,  either  at  three 
that  afternoon,  or  for  many  afternoons.  The 
young  man  was  not  overawed  by  Mollie.  That 
was  established  once  and  for  all.  He  would 
never  be  overawed  by  her  again.  She  slammed 
the  door  rather  viciously. 

"Keep  quiet  there,"  said  Norah,  appearing 
inopportunely,  as  her  habit  was,  with  a  heavily 


222  The  Wishing  Moon 

laden  breakfast  tray.  "She  needs  her  rest.  But 
she's  awake.  She  rang.  You  can  take  this  up 
and  leave  it  outside  her  door.  Who  was  talking 
to  you?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  him," 
Mollie  complained.  "Who  does  he  think  he  is? 
Did  anybody  leave  him  a  fortune  over  night? 
It  was  the  Donovan  boy." 

A  few  minutes  after  Neil's  encounter  with 
Mollie,  when  Mr.  Theodore  Burr  admitted  him 
listlessly  after  his  third  knock  at  Judge  Saxon's 
door,  he  could  see  no  evidence  that  any  one  had 
left  the  Donovan  boy  a  fortune  over  night,  but 
did  note  a  change  in  him.  There  was  something 
appealingly  grave  and  sedate  about  his  face,  as  if  a 
part  of  its  youth,  the  freakish,  unconquerable 
laughter  of  it,  that  had  defied  and  antagonized 
Mr.  Burr,  were  gone  forever,  burned  away,  some- 
how, in  a  night.  It  was  a  look  Mr.  Burr  was  to 
grow  well  used  to  in  the  next  few  months.  Perhaps 
the  unaccountable  affection  he  was  to  feel  for  the 
boy  in  the  course  of  them  was  born  then  and  there. 

Neil  emerged  from  the  Judge's  private  office 
after  a  briefer  talk  than  usual,  and  the  Judge  did 
not  escort  him  to  the  door  in  his  accustomed, 
friendly  fashion.  Mr.  Burr  did,  and  made  him 
clumsy  and  unwonted  confidences  there. 

"The  old  man's  not  quite  fit  to-day,"  he  said. 


The  Wishing  Moon  223 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you.  It's  a  poor  time  to  get 
anything  out  of  him.  Been  shut  up  there  by  him- 
self doping  out  something.  Won't  say  two  words 
to  me." 

"Then  he  must  be  in  a  bad  way,  Theodore," 
said  the  boy,  with  the  ghost  of  his  old,  mocking 
smile,  which  Mr.  Burr  somehow  did  not  find  an- 
noying at  all. 

"Look  here,  Neil,"  he  surprised  himself  by 
saying,  "I  like  you.  I  always  did.  You  deserve 
a  square  deal.  You're  too  good  for  the  Brady 
gang.  You're  too  good  for  the  town.  If  there 
was  anything  I  could  do  for  you " 

"Maybe  there  is,  Theodore,"  the  boy  turned  in 
the  corridor  to  say.  "Cheer  up.  You'll  have  a 
chance  to  see.  I'm  coming  to  work  for  the  Judge. 
I  start  in  next  week." 

"But  the  Judge  turned  you  down."  Mr. 
Burr's  brain  struggled  with  the  problem,  thinking 
out  loud  for  the  sake  of  greater  clearness,  but  too 
evidently  not  achieving  it.  "  The  Judge  likes  you, 
too,  but  he  couldn't  take  you  in  if  he  wanted  to. 
He  talked  of  it,  but  gave  it  up.  He'd  be  afraid  to. 
Everard 

"I  start  in  next  week,"  repeated  Mr.  Donovan. 

"But  what  did  you  say  to  him?"  demanded  Mr. 
Burr.  "What  did  he  say  to  you?  How  did  you 
dare  to  ask  him  again?" 


224  The  Wishing  Moon 

"I  didn't  ask  him.  Don't  worry,  Theodore. 
I  haven't  been  trying  any  black  magic  on  the 
Judge.  I  don't  know  any.  Maybe  I'll  learn 
some.  I'm  going  to  learn  a  good  deal.  I've  got 
to.  Nobody  knows  how  much.  Even  the  Judge 
don't  know.  I'm  coming  to  work  for  the  Judge, 
that's  all,  but  I  didn't  ask  him."  Mr.  Burr, 
listening  incredulously,  did  not  know  that  this 
was  a  faithful  if  condensed  account  of  his  talk 
with  the  Judge  and  more,  the  key  to  much  that 
was  to  happen  to  this  pale  and  determined  young 
man,  the  secret  of  all  his  success.  He  gave  it  away 
openly,  and  without  pride: 

"I  just  told  him  so." 

Neil  started  in  the  next  week.  If  Mr.  Burr 
watched  his  young  associate  somewhat  jealously 
at  first  in  the  natural  belief  that  a  boy  who  had 
changed  the  course  of  his  life  in  a  five-minute  inter- 
view would  do  something  equally  spectacular 
next,  and  if  the  Judge,  who  had  said  to  him  at  last, 
"Well,  it's  my  bad  morning,  son,  and  your  good 
morning,  so  you  get  your  way,  but  you're  climbing 
on  a  sinking  ship,  and  remember  I  told  you  so. 
And  I'll  tell  you  something  else.  It  will  be  poor 
pickings  here  for  all  of  us,  and  I'm  sorry,  but  I'm 
the  sorriest  for  you,"  was  inclined  to  follow  him 
furtively  over  the  top  of  his  spectacles  with  a  look 
that  held  all  the  pathetic  apology  of  age  to  youth 


The  Wishing  Moon  225 

in  his  kind,  near-sighted  eyes,  this  was  only  at 
first. 

Colonel  Everard,  returning  a  few  weeks  later 
from  one  of  his  sudden,  unexplained  absences  from 
town,  and  making  an  early  morning  visit  to  his 
attorney,  was  admitted  by  a  young  man  whom 
he  recognized,  but  pretended  not  to. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  inquired,  "the  office  boy?" 

"Just  about  that,  sir,"  the  young  man  admitted, 
as  if  he  had  no  higher  ambition,  but  the  Judge, 
entering  the  room  with  more  evidence  of  beginning 
the  day  with  the  strength  that  the  day  required, 
than  he  had  been  showing  lately  in  his  carriage 
and  look,  put  a  casual  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder, 
and  kept  it  there. 

"The  last  time  we  discussed  enlarging  my  office 
force,  you  didn't  advocate  it,  Everard,"  he  said 
rather  formally. 

"So  you  aren't  discussing  it  with  me  now?" 

"Do  you  think  you'd  better  discuss  it?" 

"Do  you?" 

"I  think  you  are  in  no  position  to  discuss  it. 
You've  been  recently  furnished  with  much  more 
important  material  to  discuss.  I  haven't  seen 
you  since  your  garden  party,  have  I?" 

"No."  Both  men  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  boy's  existence,  but  now  the  Colonel  recalled 
it,  and  apparently  without  annoyance,  and  flashed 


226  The  Wishing  Moon 

a  disarming  smile  at  him,  giving  up  gracefully, 
as  he  always  did  if  he  was  forced  to  give  up  at  all. 
"Well,  you're  right,  Hugh.  You're  always  right. 
Do  as  you  please.  But  this  boy's  got  a  temper  of 
his  own  and — quite  a  flow  of  speech.  Runs  in  his 
family,  evidently.  Properly  handled,  these  are 
assets,  but " 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  Neil  found  himself  stammering. 
"I  shouldn't  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  did  that  day. 
I'm  sorry." 

"Next  time  be  sure  of  your  facts."  The  voice 
was  friendly,  almost  paternal,  but  it  held  an  in- 
sidious challenge,  too,  and  for  one  betraying  mo- 
ment all  the  native  antagonism  that  was  really 
there  flashed  in  the  Colonel's  eyes.  Few  enemies 
of  his  had  been  permitted  to  see  it  so  clearly.  It 
was  a  triumph  for  Neil,  if  a  barren  one.  "Be 
very  sure." 

"I  will,  sir,"  said  Neil  deliberately,  but  very 
courteously.  Then  the  Colonel  disappeared  into 
the  private  office  with  his  arm  about  his  trusted 
attorney's  shoulders,  and  the  young  man  for 
whose  sake  his  attorney  had  openly  defied  him  for 
the  first  time  in  years  began  to  empty  the  office 
waste-baskets. 

The  winter  weeks  in  the  Judge's  office  passed 
without  even  moments  of  repressed  drama  like 
this.  There  was  little  to  prove  that  they  were  the 


The  Wishing  Moon  227 

most  important  weeks  of  his  life  to  Neil.  At  first 
they  were  lonely  weeks.  Mr.  Burr,  unusually 
prompt,  reached  the  office  one  crisp  September 
morning  in  time  to  find  him  staring  out  of  the 
window  at  a  straggling  procession  passing  on  its 
way  up  the  hill  to  the  schoolhouse,  hurrying  on  foot 
in  excited  groups,  or  crowded  into  equipages  of 
varying  sizes  and  degrees  of  elegance,  properly 
theirs  or  pressed  into  service. 

"First  day  of  school,"  said  Neil,  and  did  not 
need  to  explain  further,  even  to  Mr.  Burr.  From 
to-day  on  new  faces  would  look  out  of  the  many- 
paned  windows  of  the  old,  white-painted  building. 
New  voices  would  sing  in  the  night  on  then*  way 
home  from  barge  rides  and  dances.  There  were 
to  be  new  occupants  of  the  seats  of  the  mighty;  a 
new  crowd  would  own  the  town.  The  door  of  the 
country  of  the  young  was  shut  in  this  boy's  face 
from  to-day,  and  that  is  always  a  hard  day,  but  it 
was  peculiarly  hard  in  Green  River,  where  the 
country  of  the  young  was  the  only  unspoiled  and 
safe  place  to  live.  And  there  were  signs  of  a 
private  and  more  personal  hurt  in  the  boy's 
faraway  eyes. 

"What's  that  letter?"  said  Mr.  Burr. 

"Seed  catalogue." 

"Don't  she  write  to  you  every  day?" 

"Who?" 


228  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Is  she  too  proud,  or  did  she  forget  all  about 
you?  She'll  have  time  to,  away  half  the  summer, 
and  not  coming  home  for  vacations.  She  won't 
see  you  till  next  June." 

"If  you  mean  Judith  Randall,"  her  late  class- 
mate replied  in  a  carefully  expressionless  voice, 
"why  should  she  write  to  me,  and  why  shouldn't 
she  forget  all  about  me?"  There  was  a  faint, 
reminiscent  light  in  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  not 
seriously  threatened  with  the  prospect,  but  it  died 
away  quickly,  and  his  face  grew  very  grave. 

"I'm  a  business  man  now,  Theodore." 

"You  are,"  said  his  newest  friend,  "and  we 
couldn't  keep  house  without  you  now.  You're  in 
a  class  by  yourself." 

This  was  true.  Neil  did  not  take  his  big  chance 
at  life  as  other  boys  equally  in  need  of  it  would 
have  done.  He  did  not  lose  his  head.  He 
showed  no  pride  in  it.  Green  River,  soon  seeing 
this,  rewarded  him  in  various  ways,  each  signifi- 
cant in  its  own  fashion.  Nondescript  groups 
round  the  stove  in  his  uncle's  little  store  ceased 
to  look  for  signs  that  he  felt  superior  to  them,  and 
welcomed  him  as  before,  restoring  to  him  his 
privilege  of  listening  to  talk  that  was  more  im- 
portant than  it  seemed,  public  sentiment  uncol- 
oured  and  without  reserve,  the  real  voice  of  the 
town.  Mrs.  Saxon,  of  the  old  aristocracy  of  the 


The  Wishing  Moon  229 

town,  with  inborn  social  prejudices  stronger 
than  any  acquired  from  the  Everards,  broke  all 
her  rules  and  invited  him  to  Sunday -night  supper. 

"The  boy's  not  spoiled,"  his  old  friend  Luther 
Ward  said  to  the  Judge  approvingly.  "He  knows 
his  place." 

"That's  the  surest  way  to  climb  out  of  it,"  said 
Judge  Saxon,  advisedly,  for  it  was  the  Judge  who 
had  the  closest  and  most  discerning  eyes  upon 
Neil  Donovan's  career.  Listlessly  at  first,  be- 
cause he  had  looked  on  at  too  many  uphill  and 
losing  fights  against  the  world,  but  later  with 
interest,  forced  from  him  almost  against  his  will, 
he  watched  it  grow. 

To  a  casual  observer  the  boy  would  have  seemed 
to  be  fitting  himself  not  for  an  ornament  to  the 
legal  profession,  but  for  the  office  boy  Colonel 
Everard  had  called  him,  but  he  would  have  seemed 
a  willing  office  boy.  He  spent  hours  uncom- 
plainingly looking  up  obscure  points  of  law  for 
some  purpose  nobody  explained  to  him.  He 
devoted  long,  sunny  afternoons  to  looking  up  titles 
connected  with  some  mortgage  loan  which  nobody 
gave  him  the  details  of,  and  he  seemed  satisfied 
with  his  occupation,  and  equally  satisfied  to  devote 
a  morning  to  plodding  through  new-fallen  snow 
delivering  invitations  to  some  party  of  Mrs. 
Saxon's. 


230  The  Wishing  Moon 

When  he  was  actually  studying,  he  lost  himself 
in  the  Judge's  out-of-date  reference  books,  as  if 
they  contained  some  secret  as  vital  as  the  elixir 
of  youth,  and  might  yield  it  at  any  moment. 
Mr.  Burr,  at  first  ridiculing  pupil  and  course  of 
instruction  alike,  and  with  some  show  of  reason, 
began  shamefacedly  and  afterward  openly  to  give 
him  what  benefit  he  could  from  the  more  modern 
education  which  had  been  wasted  upon  him.  Be- 
tween his  two  teachers  the  boy  arrived  at  con- 
clusions of  his  own.  Neil  was  studying  law  by 
the  old  method  which  evolved  so  many  different 
men  of  letters  and  keen-witted  lawyers,  a  method 
obsolete  as  the  Judge's  clothes,  but  Neil  gave 
allegiance  to  it  ardently,  as  if  it  had  been  invented 
for  him. 

"What  do  you  get  out  of  this?"  the  Judge  de- 
manded, coming  upon  Neil  late  one  afternoon, 
poring  over  the  uninspired  pages  of  Mr.  Thayer 
by  the  fading  light.  "  What  do  you  hope  to  get?  " 

"All  there  is  in  it,"  said  the  boy  simply,  and 
without  oratorical  intent. 

"Suppose  you  do  pass  your  bar  examinations. 
What  then?  What  will  you  do  with  it?  " 

"I'll  wait  and  see  then.  I  had  to  begin  some- 
where." 

"Why?"  said  the  Judge,  and  as  he  asked  the 
question,  the  answer  to  it,  which  he  had  once 


The  Wishing  Moon  231 

known  so  well  and  forgotten,  looked  at  him  in  the 
boy's  pale  face  and  glowing  eyes,  the  great  answer 
not  to  be  silenced,  youth,  and  the  wonderful, 
wasteful  urge  of  youth.  "Don't  you  know  this 
town's  sick?"  he  demanded  abruptly.  "It's 
dirty.  You  can't  clean  it  up.  Don't  you  ever 
try.  Don't  you  stir  things  up.  Don't  you  dig 
in  too  deep.  I  suppose  you  know  the  town's  got 
no  room  for  you?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know." 

"  Where  do  you  expect  to  end?"  the  Judge  began 
irritably,  "in  the  poorhouse?  You're  so  damn 
young,"  he  grumbled.  "It's  a  good  thing  I  didn't 
know  you  when  I  was  young.  I'd  have  listened 
to  you  then." 

"You  will  now,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  and  the  Judge 
did  not  contradict  him,  but  instead,  under  shy 
pretence  of  groping  for  the  switch  of  the  desk 
lamp,  found  the  boy's  hand  and  gripped  it. 

"  You're  a  good  boy,"  he  remarked  irrelevantly. 
"Mind  what  I  said,  and  don't  dig  in  too  deep." 

The  Judge  did  not  explain  whose  secrets  he 
hoped  to  protect  by  this  vague  warning.  Probably 
he  could  not  have  explained.  It  was  one  of  those 
instinctive  pronouncements  which  shape  them- 
selves in  rare  moments  when  two  people  are  close 
and  mean  more  than  either  of  them  know.  Cer- 
tainly if  the  key  to  any  secret  was  to  be  found 


232  The  Wishing  Moon 

within  the  Judge's  dingily  decorated  walls  or  in 
his  battered  safe,  or  learned  from  his  partner,  the 
boy  had  exceptional  opportunities  to  unearth  it. 
Theodore  Burr's  intimacy  with  Neil  developed 
rapidly.  He  stuck  to  it  obstinately,  in  spite  of  his 
wife,  showing  more  independence  about  it  than 
he  had  in  years.  The  two  had  tramped  and  snow- 
shoed  together  through  long  winter  hours  of  inti- 
mate talk  and  more  intimate  silence,  and  they 
found  the  first  Mayflowers  of  the  year  together. 
Only  the  week  before  he  had  committed  the 
crowning  indiscretion  of  giving  up  a  poker  game 
at  the  Everards'  to  go  shooting  with  Neil. 

The  Judge,  in  the  strenuous  days  of  Colonel 
Everard's  summer  campaign,  had  no  time  to 
observe  the  growth  of  this  intimacy  or  to  think 
much  about  Neil,  but  he  might  have  been  inter- 
ested in  a  snatch  of  talk  in  the  Brady  kitchen  one 
evening,  if  he  could  have  overheard  it,  more  inter- 
ested than  Mrs.  Donovan,  who  did  not  remember 
it  long. 

Her  son  was  an  hour  late  for  supper,  but  she 
was  used  to  that,  for  now  that  he  was  on  his  feet 
the  house  revolved  around  him.  She  served  him, 
and  then  sat  watching  him  with  her  hands  folded, 
and  the  new  dignity  that  had  come  with  his  first 
bit  of  success  straightening  her  tired  shoulders, 
and  the  look  of  age  and  pain  that  had  been  grow- 


The  Wishing  Moon  233 

ing  there  since  Maggie  disappeared  widening  her 
soft,  deep  eyes.  He  had  dropped  wearily  into  his 
chair,  and  he  ate  almost  in  silence,  but  she  was 
used  to  that,  too. 

Outside  the  short,  June  twilight  was  over,  and 
a  pattering  summer  rain  had  begun  to  fall.  Neil's 
dark  hair  was  damp  with  it  and  clung  to  his  fore- 
head in  close  curls.  Once,  passing  his  chair,  she 
smoothed  it  with  a  hand  that  was  work  hardened 
but  finely  made  and  could  touch  him  lightly  and 
shyly  still.  Her  son  pulled  her  suddenly  close, 
and  hid  his  face  against  her. 

"What  is  it?  "  she  asked,  softly  and  not  too  soon 
as  she  stood  still  and  held  him.  "What's  wrong, 
then?  Where  have  you  been?  " 

"Nothing's  wrong.  Nothing  new.  I  went 
round  to  Theodore  Burr's,  but  I  left  there  at  five. 
I  didn't  mean  to  be  late  home  or  make  work. 
But  I  had  a  hunch  to  look  in  at  Halloran's.  I 
thought  I'd  find  Charlie  there.  I  did,  and  I  had 
to  get  him  home." 

"Taking  your  strength,"  said  Mr.  Brady's  aunt, 
unfeelingly  but  truthfully,  "a  good-for-noth- 
ing- 

"  That's  not  the  worst  thing  he  does." 

"What  is,  then?" 

"Talking." 

"He  don't  mean  anything  by  that." 


234  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Sometimes  he  does.  Sometimes  he  tells  you 
things  that  you  never  suspected  and  you  don't 
believe  him  at  first,  but  you  find  they're  true; 
things  that  have  been  locked  up  in  his  addled 
brain  so  long  that  they're  out  of  date,  and  you 
don't  know  how  to  profit  by  them  or  handle  them, 
but  they're  true — all  true." 

"Neil,  you  don't  half  know  what  you're  saying. 
You're  tired." 

Mrs.  Donovan  released  herself  abruptly  to  get 
the  tea-pot  from  the  stove.  Her  son,  who  had 
been  talking  in  a  low,  monotonous  voice,  more  to 
himself  than  her,  watched  her  with  dazed  eyes  that 
slowly  cleared. 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  he  said.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  frighten  you.  Charlie  was  no  more 
loose  mouthed  to-day  than  he  always  is.  I  got 
hold  of  nothing  new,  but  I  have  hold  of  more  than 
I  can  handle,  and  I'm  tired  and  I'm  scared,  and 
there's  only  one  of  me." 

But  Mrs.  Donovan  preferred  her  own  interpre- 
tation of  the  situation,  as  most  ladies  would  have. 
She  made  it  tactfully,  keeping  her  eyes  away  from 
him,  busy  with  the  tea-pot.  "  You're  young,  and 
it's  June.  Neil,  the  children  walked  round  with 
the  Sullivan  girl  to  take  home  the  wash  to  the 
Randalls'.  They  had  some  talk  with  Norah  there. 
Judith  will  be  home  this  week." 


The  Wishing  Moon  235 

She  had  mentioned  the  much-debated  name  in  a 
voice  which  she  kept  indifferent,  but  she  flashed 
a  quick,  apprehensive  glance  at  him.  She  was 
quite  unprepared  for  its  effect  upon  him.  He  only 
laughed,  and  then  his  face  sobered  quickly,  and 
his  eyes  grew  lonely  and  tired  again. 

"Judith,"  he  said,  "you  think  that's  my 
trouble,  mother.  Well,  I'm  not  so  young  as  I 
was  last  June."  Then  he  began  with  considerable 
relish  to  drink  his  tea. 

"You're  contrary  and  close  mouthed,  but  you're 
only  a  boy  like  all  other  boys,"  said  Mrs.  Donovan, 
sticking  to  her  point,  "and  you're  a  good  son 
to  me." 

The  boy  who  had  made  this  rare  and  abortive 
attempt  at  confidences  only  the  night  before 
showed  no  need  of  repeating  it  as  he  gazed  out  of 
the  Judge's  window.  He  looked  quite  competent 
to  bear  all  his  own  troubles  alone,  and  a  generous 
share  of  other  people's,  though  somewhat  sad- 
dened by  them.  Perhaps  his  mother's  diagnosis 
of  him  was  correct.  He  leaned  his  chin  on  his 
hands  and  stared  out  of  the  window  like  any 
dreaming  boy,  as  if  it  was.  But  the  whiter  that 
had  passed  so  lightly  over  Green  River  had  left 
traces  of  its  own  upon  him.  His  profile  had  a 
clearer,  more  sharply  outlined  look.  The  lines 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  firmer  though 


236  The  Wishing  Moon 

they  were  no  deeper,  and  the  mouth  was  still  a 
boy's  mouth,  red-lipped  and  lightly  closed.  But 
the  dreaming  eyes  were  a  man's,  dreaming  still, 
but  alert,  and  ready  to  banish  dreams. 

The  afternoon  light  was  fading  fast.  It  was 
not  so  easy  now  to  read  the  fine  print  of  Mr. 
Thayer's  notes,  and  the  boy  made  no  further  pre- 
tence of  trying  to.  He  let  Mr.  Thayer  slip  to  the 
floor,  and  stretched  himself  in  his  chair  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  The  sounds  of  talk  in  the  Judge's 
room  had  grown  fainter  and  more  intermittent 
and  finally  ceased.  The  Judge,  still  deep  in 
conference  with  them,  had  left  with  his  guests 
by  the  private  door.  The  boy  was  alone  in  the 
office. 

Gradually,  as  he  sat  there,  the  bright  pageant  of 
the  busy  little  street  had  dimmed.  It  made  a 
softer  and  mellower  picture,  a  blend  of  delicate 
colours  in  the  slant  mellow  light,  and  it  was  not  so 
busy  now.  There  were  fewer  passers-by,  and  they 
hurried  and  did  not  loiter  past.  It  was  almost 
supper-time.  Willard  Nash,  not  joy  riding  now, 
but  dispatched  reluctantly  alone  on  some  emer- 
gency errand,  flashed  by  in  his  car,  and  disap- 
peared up  Main  Street. 

Beyond  the  double  row  of  shops  the  upper  section 
of  the  street  was  empty.  The  maples,  in  full  leaf 
now  and  delicately  green,  shadowed  the  upward 


The  Wishing  Moon  237 

slant  of  smooth  road  alluringly.  Touched  with 
golden  afternoon  light,  and  half  hidden  by  the 
spreading  green,  the  old,  solidly  built  houses 
planted  so  heavily  in  the  midst  of  their  well-kept 
lawns  had  new  and  unguessed  possibilities.  Any 
one  of  them  just  then  might  have  sheltered  a  fairy 
princess.  The  one  that  did  was  just  within  range 
of  the  boy's  grave,  patient  eyes,  a  protruding 
porch,  disproportionately  enlarged  and  ugly,  a 
sweep  of  vividly  green  lawn  stripped  bare  of  the 
graceful,  dishevelled  growth  of  lilac  and  syringa 
bushes  that  had  graced  it  before  Mrs.  Randall's 
day. 

Not  from  that  house,  but  from  somewhere  be- 
yond it,  a  car  flashed  into  view  and  cut  smoothly 
and  quickly  down  through  the  street,  almost  de- 
serted now.  The  boy  followed  it  idly  with  his  eyes. 
The  low-built,  graceful  lines  of  it  held  them.  It 
approached,  and  slowed  down  directly  under 
the  windows,  and  the  boy  leaned  forward  and 
looked. 

It  was  stopping  there.  It  was  one  of  the  Ever- 
ard  cars,  as  the  trim  lines  and  perfection  of  detail 
would  have  shown  without  the  English  chauffeur's 
familiar,  supercilious  face.  The  car  had  only  one 
occupant,  a  slender  young  person  in  white.  She 
slipped  quickly  out,  and  disappeared  into  the 
dingy  entrance  hall  below. 


238  The  Wishing  Moon 

She  had  not  seen  the  boy  at  the  window.  He 
stood  still  now  in  his  corner,  and  waited.  The 
tap  of  her  feet  was  light  even  on  the  old  creaking 
stairs,  but  he  heard.  She  knocked  once  and  a 
second  time,  and  then  threw  open  the  door  im- 
patiently, saw  who  was  there,  and  stopped  just  in- 
side the  door,  and  looked  at  him. 

Her  white  dress  and  big,  beflowered  hat  looked 
as  cool  and  as  new  as  June  itself.  They  did  not 
make  the  dingy  room  look  dingier,  they  made  you 
forget  it  was  dingy.  Her  soft,  bef rilled  skirts 
fluffed  and  flared  in  the  brave  and  bewildering 
mode  of  the  moment.  Skirts,  small  shoes  that 
were  built  to  dance,  not  to  walk,  the  futuristic 
blend  of  flowers  in  her  hat,  and  the  girdle,  unre- 
lentingly high  and  futuristic  of  colour,  too,  that 
gave  her  waist  an  unbelievably  slender  look,  were 
all  in  the  dainty  and  sophisticated  taste  of  a  sophis- 
ticated young  lady,  and  under  the  elaborate  hat 
there  was  a  sophisticated  young  face.  It  looked 
smaller  and  more  faintly  pink.  The  small  chin 
was  more  prominent.  But  she  still  had  the  wide, 
reproachful  eyes  of  a  child.  They  regarded  the 
boy  unwinkingly.  One  hand  went  behind  her, 
found  the  knob  of  the  door,  and  closed  it  mechani- 
cally, but  the  eyes  did  not  leave  his  face. 

He  stepped  uncertainly  forward,  and  stopped. 

"Well,  Judith,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  held  all 


The  Wishing  Moon  239 

the  authority  Judge  Saxon's  assistant  had  acquired 
in  the  long  year  of  his  service  and  more,  "Well?" 
and  then,  in  a  voice  that  held  no  authority  at  all, 
but  was  suddenly  husky  and  small:  "Oh,  Judith, 
won't  you  speak  to  me?" 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

JUDITH,"  Neil  said. 
Neil's  visitor  flashed  a  quick  glance 
round  the  dim  office,  empty  except  for  the 
lean  young  figure  that  confronted  her.  It  was  a 
hunted  glance,  as  if  she  really  meant  to  turn  with- 
out speaking  and  pick  up  her  beruffled  skirts,  and 
run  away  down  the  dusty  stairs,  but  she  did  not 
run  away.  Suddenly  quite  herself,  recovering  by 
tapping  some  emergency  reserve  of  strength  as 
only  ladies  can,  but  as  most  of  them  can,  even  the 
most  amateurish  and  beruffled  of  ladies,  she  crossed 
the  room  to  him. 

She  came  deliberately,  with  an  impressive  flutter 
of  hidden  silk .  She  was  smiling  a  faint  half-smile, 
sweet  but  indefinably  teasing,  and  holding  out  a 
daintily  gloved  hand.  It  touched  Neil's  lightly 
and  impersonally,  not  like  a  girl's  warm  hand  at 
all,  but  like  the  hand  of  a  society  forever  beyond 
his  reach,  held  out  patronizingly  to  this  boy  be- 
yond its  pale,  only  to  emphasize  the  distance  be- 
tween them. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  murmured,  formally  but 
sweetly. 

240 


The  Wishing  Moon  241 

"How  do  you  do?"  the  boy  stammered.  "Ju- 
dith, oh,  Judith,  I " 

He  broke  off,  staring  helplessly  into  her  eyes. 
They  were  dark  and  accusing  and  grave,  and  a 
heartache  shadowed  the  depths  of  them,  the  lonely 
and  infinite  heartache  of  youth,  when  you  cannot 
measure  your  pain  or  argue  it  away,  but  must 
suffer  and  suffer  instead.  But  the  boy  was  too 
miserable  just  then  to  read  it  there. 

"Judith,"  he  began,  "don't  you  care  any  more? 
Why  wouldn't  you  read  my  letters?  Why 
wouldn't  you  let  me  explain?  Won't  you  let  me 
now?  I  can,  Judith." 

Still  smiling,  not  taking  the  trouble  to  interrupt 
him,  she  waited  for  him  to  finish,  and  as  she  waited 
and  smiled,  he  had  suddenly  nothing  more  to  say. 
Judith  was  so  slender  and  white  and  still  as  she 
stood  there.  All  the  outraged  dignity  of  an 
offended  schoolgirl  was  helping  to  make  this 
overwhelming  little  effect  of  hers,  and  every  trick 
of  poise  and  carriage  that  she  had  acquired  in  a 
year,  and  something  else,  something  that  shamed 
and  silenced  the  boy  as  no  tricks  could  have  done, 
and  made  her  pathetic  little  show  of  injured  dig- 
nity real.  A  woman's  shy  soul  was  reaching  out 
for  every  defence  it  had  to  protect  itself;  a  woman's 
new-born,  bewildered  soul  looked  out  of  Judith's 
beautiful,  grieved  eyes. 


242  The  Wishing  Moon 

It  was  very  still  in  the  office.  Outside  an  auto- 
mobile horn  sounded  aggressively,  once  and  again, 
and  Judith  gave  the  boy  an  amused,  apologetic 
glance. 

"Parks  is  in  a  hurry,"  she  said.  "He  ought  not 
to  do  that.  The  Colonel  wouldn't  like  it.  But  I 
won't  keep  him  waiting.  I'm  going  out  to  the 
Camp  for  supper.  Father  and  mother  are  there 
already .  I  stopped  for  the  Judge,  but  he  doesn't 
seem  to  be  here.  He  is  walking  out  to  the  Camp, 
I  suppose.  I'm — glad  to  have  seen  you."  Her 
voice  choked  perilously  over  this  irreproachable 
sentiment,  then  steadied  and  modulated  itself 
according  to  the  instructions  of  the  highly  ac- 
credited elocution  teacher  of  which  she  had  en- 
joyed the  benefit  for  a  year.  "Good-night." 

Again  she  put  out  her  cool  little  hand,  but  this 
time  the  boy's  hand  closed  on  it  tight. 

"Judith,"  he  began,  his  words  coming  fast,  the 
contact  seeming  to  release  all  that  had  been  storing 
itself  up  in  his  lonely  heart  for  a  year.  Once 
released,  it  came  tumbling  out  incoherently,  with 
the  lilting  brogue  of  the  ragged  little  boy  that  he 
used  to  be  singing  through  it,  and  the  breath- 
less catch  in  his  voice  that  is  the  supremest  elo- 
quence for  the  kind  of  words  that  he  had  to  say. 
But  Judith  gave  no  sign  of  being  moved  by  it, 
and  while  she  listened,  a  hard  look,  too  unrelenting 


The  Wishing  Moon  243 

for  any  eloquence  to  reach,  was  growing  in  her 
eyes. 

"Judith,  you're  so  sweet,  so  sweet;  sweeter  than 
you  were  last  year — sweeter  than  you  ever  were 
before.  I  didn't  know  anybody  could  be  sweeter, 
even  you.  I  was  so  lonely.  I  wanted  you  so,  and 
now  you've  come.  Everything  will  be  all  right, 
now  you've  come.  And  you  came  straight  here. 
You  knew  I  was  here,  and  you  came  because  you 
knew.  You  came  straight  to  me." 

"I  came  for  the  Judge,"  she  corrected  him 
gravely. 

"But  you  knew  I  was  here." 

"I  knew  you  were  working  for  the  Judge,  but  I 
didn't  think  you'd  be  here  so  late  in  the  afternoon. 
I  didn't  come  to  see  you.  I  didn't  want  to.  Why 
should  I?  But  I'm  glad  you  are  doing  so  well. 
Good-night,  Neil." 

"Good-night,"  he  muttered  mechanically, 
checked  once  more  in  spite  of  himself. 

But  as  he  spoke,  he  felt  her  hands,  both  in  his 
now,  and  held  tight,  tremble  and  try  softly  at 
first,  and  then  in  sudden  panic,  to  pull  themselves 
away.  Her  voice,  that  had  been  so  grave  and  cool, 
with  no  echo  of  the  excitement  that  was  in  his, 
failed  her  now,  though  she  kept  her  wide-open  eyes 
bravely  upon  him.  She  was  afraid  of  him,  this 
young  lady  who  was  making  such  elaborate  at- 


244  The  Wishing  Moon 

tempts  to  hide  it,  this  young  lady  not  of  his 
world,  and  so  anxious  to  prove  it  to  him,  this 
calm  stranger  with  Judith's  eyes.  She  was  very 
much  afraid,  and  she  could  not  hide  it  any  longer. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  tried  to  say. 

"Judith,"  he  dropped  her  hands  obediently,  but 
his  arms  reached  out  for  her  and  caught  her  and 
held  her  close,  "you  didn't  come  for  the  Judge. 
You  came  to  see  me." 

"No.     No." 

Her  face  was  hidden  against  his  shoulder.  Her 
voice  came  muffled  and  soft.  Neil  paid  no  further 
attention  to  it.  "No,"  it  insisted  faintly.  "Let 
me  go."  Then  it  insisted  no  more,  and  the  boy 
laughed  a  soft,  triumphant  little  laugh. 

"You  did  come  to  see  me,  and  you  love  me. 
You  love  me  and  I  love  you.  You  were  angry,  of 
course.  Of  course  you  sent  back  my  letters. 
But  you're  going  to  listen  to  me  now.  You're 
going  to  let  me  explain.  I  couldn't  that  night.  I 
couldn't  talk  any  more.  I  didn't  dare.  I  had  to 
keep  hold  of  myself.  I  had  to  get  you  home. 
And  I  did,  dear.  I  turned  round  and  took  you 
home,  and  I  got  you  home — safe.  You're  going 
to  listen?  And  not  be  angry  any  more?  You 
won't,  will  you?  You  won't — dear?" 

Her  face  was  still  out  of  sight,  and  her  white 
figure  was  motionless  in  his  arms.  She  did  not 


The  Wishing  Moon  245 

relax  there,  but  she  did  not  struggle.  She  looked 
very  slender  and  helpless  so.  Her  futuristic  hat 
had  slipped  from  its  daring  and  effective  adjust- 
ment, and  fallen  to  the  Judge's  dusty  floor,  where 
it  lay  unregarded.  The  silvery  blond  head 
against  his  shoulder  was  changed  like  the  rest  of 
her,  a  mass  of  delicately  adjusted  puffs  and  curls, 
but  in  the  fast-fading  light  he  saw  only  the  soft, 
pale  colour  of  her  hair  and  the  tender  curve  of  her 
throat.  He  kissed  it  reverently  and  lightly,  once 
only,  and  then  his  arms  let  her  go. 

"You're  so  sweet,"  he  whispered;  "too  sweet 
for  me.  But  you're  mine,  aren't  you?  Tell  me 
you  are.  And  you  forgive  me  for — everything? 
Tell  me,  Judith." 

She  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  tell  him.  She  faced 
him  silently,  her  white  dress  whiter  than  ever 
in  the  fading  light,  and  her  face  big  eyed  and  ex- 
pressionless. He  waited  reverently  for  her  an- 
swer, and  quite  confidently,  picking  up  the  elab- 
orate hat  mechanically,  and  then  smoothing  the 
ribbons  tenderly,  and  pulling  at  the  flowers,  as  he 
realized  what  he  held. 

"Poor  little  hat,"  he  said  softly,  with  the  brogue 
coaxing  insinuatingly  in  his  voice.  "Poor  little 
girl.  I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you.  And  I 
didn't  mean  to — that  night.  .  .  .  Judith!" 

It  was  undoubtedly  Judith  who  confronted  him, 


246  The  Wishing  Moon 

and  no  strange  lady  now.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
been  waiting  for  some  cue  from  him,  and  heard  it, 
and  sprung  into  life  again,  not  the  strange  lady, 
not  even  the  girl  of  the  year  before,  but  a  long-ago 
Judith,  the  child  who  had  come  to  his  rescue  on  a 
forgotten  May  night,  the  child  of  the  moonlit 
woods,  with  her  shrill  voice  and  flashing  eyes. 
She  was  that  Judith  again,  but  grown  to  a  woman» 
and  now  she  was  not  his  ally,  but  his  enemy.  She 
snatched  the  beflowered  hat  away,  and  swung  it 
upon  her  head  with  the  same  reckless  hand  that 
had  swept  the  lantern  to  the  ground  in  her  childish 
defence  of  him.  Her  eyes  defied  him. 

"  That  night,"  she  stormed,  "  that  night.  Don't 
you  ever  speak  of  that  night  to  me  again.  I  never 
want  to  hear  you  speak  again.  I  never  want  to 
see  you  again.  I'll  never  forgive  you  as  long  as 
I  live.  I  hate  you ! " 

"Judith,  listen  to  me,"  begged  the  boy.  "Lis- 
ten. You  must." 

But  the  girl  who  swept  past  him  and  turned  to 
confront  him  at  the  door  was  past  listening  to  him. 
Words  that  she  hardly  heard  herself,  and  would 
not  remember,  came  to  her,  and  she  flung  them  at 
him  in  a  breathless  little  burst  of  speech  that  hurt 
and  was  meant  to  hurt.  The  boy  took  it  silently, 
not  trying  to  interrupt,  slow  colour  reddening  his 
cheeks,  his  eyes  growing  angry  then  sullen.  The 


The  Wishing  Moon  247 

words  that  Judith  used  hardly  mattered.  They 
were  futile  and  childish  words,  but  because  of  the 
blaze  of  anger  behind  them,  that  had  been  gather- 
ing long  and  would  go  on  after  they  were  forgotten, 
they  were  splendid,  too. 

"I  hate  you!  I  don't  belong  to  you.  I  don't 
belong  to  anybody.  I'm  not  like  anybody  else. 
Nobody  cares  what  I  do,  and  I  don't  care.  I  don't 
care.  Nobody  ever  takes  care  of  me  or  knows 
when  I  need  it.  Well,  I  can  take  care  of  myself. 
I'm  going  to  now.  I  never  want  to  belong  to 
anybody.  If  I  did,  it  wouldn't  be  you." 

"Judith,  stop !     You'll  be  sorry  for  this." 

"If  I  am,  it's  no  business  of  yours.  It's  no- 
body's business  but  mine." 

"You'll  be  sorry,"  the  boy  muttered  again,  and 
this  time  the  girl  did  not  contradict  him  or  an- 
swer. Her  shrill  little  burst  of  defiance  was  over, 
and  with  it  the  sullen  resentment  that  had  crim- 
soned the  boy's  face  as  he  listened  began  to  die 
away.  He  was  rebuffed  and  thrown  back  upon 
himself.  His  heart  would  not  open  so  easily 
again.  It  would  be  a  long  time  before  it  opened 
at  all.  But  he  did  not  resent  this.  He  only 
looked  baffled  and  puzzled  and  miserable,  and  the 
girl  staring  mutely  at  him  from  the  doorway  with 
big,  starved  eyes,  looked  miserable,  too.  She 
would  be  angry  again.  All  the  hurt  pride  and 


248  The  Wishing  Moon 

anger  that  had  been  gathering  in  her  heart  for  a 
year  was  not  to  be  relieved  by  an  unrehearsed 
burst  of  speech.  It  had  been  sleeping  in  her  heart. 
It  was  all  awake  now,  and  she  would  be  angrier 
with  the  boy  and  the  world  than  ever  before, 
angrier  and  more  reckless.  But  just  now  her  anger 
was  blotted  out  and  she  was  only  miserable. 
In  the  gloom  of  the  office  there  was  something 
curiously  alike  about  the  two  tragic  young  faces. 

The  two  were  alone  together  there,  but  they  had 
never  been  farther  apart.  There  was  a  whole  world 
between  them,  a  lonely  world,  where  people  all 
speak  different  languages,  and  understand  each 
other  only  by  a  miracle,  and  most  of  them  are  so 
used  to  being  alone  that  they  forget  they  once  had 
a  moment  of  first  realizing  it.  But  when  it  was 
upon  them,  it  was  a  bitter  moment.  These  two 
young  creatures  were  both  living  through  it  now. 
They  looked  at  each  other  blankly,  all  antagonism 
gone. 

"You  won't  listen?"  said  the  boy  wonderingly, 
admitting  defeat.  "You  won't  forgive  me?' 

"No,"  said  Judith  pitifully.     "I  can't." 

Neil  looked  at  her  forlornly,  but  did  not  con- 
test this.  He  came  meekly  forward,  not  trying 
to  touch  her  again,  and  opened  the  door  for  her. 

"Well,  good-night,"  he  said.  "Good-night, 
dear." 


The  Wishing  Moon  249 

"Good-bye,"  Judith  said.     "Good-bye,  Neil." 

Then,  jerking  her  flaunting  hat  into  adjustment 
with  trembling  fingers,  and  shaking  out  her  be- 
frilled  skirts  with  a  poor  little  imitation  of  her 
earlier  airs  and  graces,  she  slipped  out  into  the 
corridor,  groped  for  the  dusty  stair  rail,  and 
clutched  at  it  with  a  new  disregard  for  her  immacu- 
late whiteness,  and  disappeared  down  the  stairs. 

In  the  street  below  the  last  of  the  .afternoon 
light  still  lingered,  reflected  from  the  polished  win- 
dows of  the  bank  building,  and  f  aintly  illuminating 
the  half-deserted  square,  but  the  sun  was  just 
going  down  behind  the  court-house  roof,  a  big, 
crimson  ball  of  vanishing  light.  Judith,  appear- 
ing below  in  the  doorway,  stood  regarding  it  de- 
liberately for  a  minute,  ignoring  the  chauffeur's 
discreet  manifestations  of  impatience,  and  then 
made  herself  comfortable  deliberately  in  the  Colo- 
nel's car. 

She  sat  there  proudly  erect,  a  dainty,  aloof 
little  lady.  She  seemed  to  have  recovered  her 
high  estate  upon  entering  it,  and  become  a  prin- 
cess beyond  Neil's  reach  once  more.  Watching 
her  gravely  from  the  Judge's  window,  he  could 
not  see  the  angry  tears  in  her  eyes  or  the  reckless 
light  in  them. 

Little  preliminary  pants  and  puffs  came  from 
the  car,  discreetly  impatient,  as  if  they  voiced  all 


850  The  Wishing  Moon 

the  feelings  that  the  correct  Parks  repressed.  He 
relieved  them  with  one  blatant  flourish  of  sound 
from  the  horn,  and  swung  the  car  grandly  across 
the  square,  round  the  corner,  and  out  of  sight. 
Judith  was  gone,  and  she  had  not  once  looked  up  at 
the  boy  in  the  window. 

She  had  not  even  seen  another  cavalier,  who 
dashed  out  of  a  shop  and  tried  to,  intercept  and 
speak  to  her,  but  was  just  too  late;  Mr.  Willard 
Nash,  thrilled  by  his  first  sight  of  her,  ready  to 
return  to  his  old  allegiance  at  a  word,  and  adver- 
tising the  fact  in  every  line  of  his  forlorn  fat  figure 
as  he  stood  alone  on  the  sidewalk  gazing  wistfully 
after  the  vanished  car. 

The  boy  at  the  window  did  not  waste  his  time 
in  this  way.  Judith  was  gone,  and  with  her  the 
spell  that  had  held  him  mute  and  helpless,  and 
he  was  a  man  of  affairs  once  more.  He  was  not  a 
very  cheerful  man  of  affairs  to-night.  He  was 
not  singing  or  whistling  to  himself,  as  he  usually 
did,  but  he  moved  competently  enough  about  the 
room,  entering  the  Judge's  private  office  with  its 
smell  of  stale  tobacco  smoke  and  group  of  chairs, 
so  confidentially  close  that  they  looked  capable 
of  carrying  on  the  conference  then*  late  occupants 
had  begun  without  help  from  them.  He  rear- 
ranged this  room,  giving  just  the  straightening 
touches  to  the  jumble  of  papers  on  the  desk  that 


The  Wishing  Moon  251 

the  Judge  permitted,  and  no  more,  and  putting 
the  outer  office  in  order,  too. 

By  his  own  desk  he  paused,  fingering  Mr. 
Thayer's  thumbed  pages  absently.  He  had  no 
attention  to  spare  for  them  just  then,  or  for  the 
graver  questions  that  had  absorbed  him  just  be- 
fore Judith  came.  They  would  soon  claim  him 
again.  They  awaited  him  now,  but  out  hi  the 
gathering  dark  that  he  watched  from  the  darken- 
ing office  something  else  waited,  too. 

His  heart  ached  with  it,  but  it  beat  harder  and 
stronger  for  it,  and  new  strength  to  meet  old 
issues  came  pulsing  from  it,  as  if  he  were  awake 
again  after  a  year  of  sleep.  He  was  grieved  and 
miserable,  but  he  was  awake.  For  his  mother 
was  right:  he  was  only  a  boy  like  other  boys; 
he  was  young  and  it  was  June,  and  whether  she 
was  kind  or  unkind,  Judith  Randall  was  back  in 
Green  River. 

Judith,  whirled  along  the  fast-darkening  road  be- 
tween close-growing  pines,  dulling  from  green  to 
black,  and  birches,  silver  against  them,  looked  for 
the  welcoming  lights  of  Camp  Everard  through  a 
mist  of  angry  tears. 

She  shed  them  decorously,  even  under  cover  of 
the  dark;  she  was  still  a  dainty  and  proud  little 
lady,  with  nothing  about  her  to  advertise  con- 


252  The  Wishing  Moon 

spicuously  that  she  was  crying,  or  why.  But  her 
little  gloved  hands  were  closing  and  unclosing 
themselves,  her  lips  were  trembling  in  spite  of 
her,  and  there  was  a  hunted  look  in  her  eyes  as 
she  turned  them  toward  the  dark  woods,  as  if  her 
quarrel  with  Neil  were  not  her  only  trouble.  The 
tears  that  she  controlled  so  gallantly  were  a  pro- 
test against  a  world  only  half  understood  and  full 
of  enemies  whose  alien  presence  she  was  just  be- 
ginning to  feel. 

But  Neil,  as  she  had  just  seen  him,  was  enough 
to  occupy  the  mind  of  such  a  young  lady,  or  a 
much  older  one.  The  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  stood 
holding  open  the  Judge's  door  for  her  was  a  highly 
irritating  one  for  any  lady  to  meet.  He  was 
older  and  wiser  than  she  was,  no  matter  what  she 
could  say  or  do  to  hurt  him;  he  was  stronger  than 
she  was,  and  patiently  waiting  to  prove  it  to  her; 
that  was  what  Neil's  eyes  were  saying. 

They  said  it  first  when  he  left  her  at  her  own 
door  without  a  good-night  on  that  strange  May 
night  a  year  ago;  when  she  stood  looking  up  at 
him  changed  and  alien  and  silent,  with  the  May 
moon  behind  him,  that  had  brought  her  bad  for- 
tune instead  of  good,  still  dim  and  alluring  with 
false  promises  above  the  shadowy  elms  in  the  little 
street,  and  they  looked  down  at  her  just  so — 
Neil's  grave,  unforgettable,  conquering  eyes. 


The  Wishing  Moon  253 

They  were  eyes  that  followed  you  to-night,  when 
you  tried  to  forget  them  and  look  at  the  dark 
woods  and  fields;  eyes  that  looked  at  you  still 
when  you  closed  your  own. 

But  Judith  would  not  look  at  them.  The  eyes 
were  lying  to  her.  Neil  was  not  really  wise  or 
kind.  He  was  cruel.  He  had  hurt  her  and  slighted 
her,  and  she  was  through  with  him. 

"Parks,  can't  you  go  faster?"  she  said  suddenly, 
in  her  clear  little  voice.  "It's  so  late,  and  I'm 
hungry  and  cold." 

"It's  bad  going  through  here,  Miss,"  the  chauf- 
feur said. 

They  were  turning  into  a  narrow  mile  or  so  of 
road  that  sloped  gradually  down  through  a  series 
of  arbitrary  curves  and  bends  to  the  lake  and  the 
camp,  a  changed  and  elaborate  structure  now, 
overweighted  with  verandas  and  uncompromis- 
ingly lit  with  new  electric  lights.  But  the  road 
was  one  of  the  things  that  the  Colonel  did  not 
improve  when  he  changed  the  public  camp  into  a 
private  one.  It  was  unchanged  and  unspoiled, 
a  mysterious  wood  road  still,  alluring  now  in  the 
gloom. 

Judith's  own  people  were  waiting  for  her  there 
at  the  end  of  that  road.  They  were  all  the  people 
she  had.  Willard  and  schooltime  and  playtime 
were  more  than  a  year  behind  her;  they  were  be- 


254  The  Wishing  Moon 

hind  her  forever.  She  could  never  go  back  to  them. 
She  had  never  really  been  part  of  them.  She 
had  forced  herself  into  a  place  there,  but  she  had 
lost  it  now,  and  it  could  never  be  hers  again. 

These  were  her  people.  They  were  strange  to 
her  still,  but  she  had  grown  up  breathing  tLe 
feverish  air  that  they  breathed,  and  with  little 
whispers  of  hidden  scandal  about  her.  Judith 
was  alone  between  two  worlds:  one  was  closed  to 
her,  and  she  was  before  the  door  of  another,  where 
she  did  not  know  her  way.  She  was  really  alone, 
as  she  had  told  Neil,  more  alone  than  she  knew;  a 
lonely  and  tragic  figure,  white  and  small  in  the 
corner  of  the  big  car. 

But  she  was  not  crying  now.  She  dabbed  ex- 
pertly at  her  eyes  with  an  overscented  scrap  of 
handkerchief  and  sat  up,  looking  eagerly  down  the 
dark  road.  She  could  catch  far  echoes  of  a  song 
through  the  still  night  air,  faint  echoes  only,  but 
it  was  a  song  that  she  knew,  a  gay  little  song,  and 
it  came  from  a  place  where  people  were  always 
kind  and  gay.  It  was  like  a  hand  stretched  out  to 
her  through  the  dark,  a  warm  hand,  to  beckon  her 
nearer,  and  then  draw  her  close.  She  leaned  for- 
ward and  listened  and  looked. 

There  was  the  camp,  the  first  glimpse  of  it, 
though  soon  a  dip  of  the  road  would  hide  it  again. 
It  was  an  enchanting  glimpse,  a  far,  low-lying 


The  Wishing  Moon  255 

flicker  of  light.  And  there,  just  by  the  big,  up- 
standing boulder  where  the  road  turned  abruptly, 
she  saw  something  else.  She  saw  it  before  Parks 
did,  as  if  she  had  been  watching  for  it.  It  was  a 
man's  figure  that  started  forward,  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  road,  and  waited.  The  man  looked 
more  than  his  slender  height  in  the  shadow,  but  his 
light,  quick  walk  was  unmistakable.  It  was 
Colonel  Everard. 

"Stop,  Parks,"  Judith  said,  with  new  authority 
in  her  voice. 

He  stood  waiting  for  her  silently,  without  any 
greeting  at  all,  and  she  slipped  her  hand  into  his 
and  stepped  out  and  stood  beside  him. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  to  the  chauffeur.  "It's  too 
rough  here  for  the  car.  It's  easier  on  foot  Miss 
Randall  will  walk  with  me." 

The  car,  skilfully  manipulated  along  the  steep, 
zigzag  road,  but  a  clumsy  thing  at  best  here  in  the 
woods,  and  an  artificial  and  ugly  thing,  lumbered 
away,  breaking  through  outreaching  branches. 
Judith  watched  it  out  of  sight.  Then  and  not  till 
then  she  turned  to  her  host. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  speak  to  me?"  the  great 
man  inquired  respectfully,  as  if  her  intentions  de- 
served the  most  serious  consideration. 

"Yes,"  said  Judith  serenely,  unflattered  by  it. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  say?  " 


256  The  Wishing  Moon 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say?'* 

"I  want  you  to  shake  hands  with  me." 

A  hand  touched  his  lightly.  It  drew  quickly 
away,  but  it  was  a  confiding  little  hand. 

"You  don't  seem  surprised  to  see  me." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Judith. 

"But  you're  glad  to  see  me? " 

"Yes." 

"It's  stuffy  inside,  and  they've  got  a  fire  hi  the 
billiard  room  and  won't  leave  it.  I  wanted ' 

Judith  laughed  and  let  him  draw  her  hand 
through  his  arm  as  they  began  to  grope  their  way 
down  the  road.  "You  wanted  to  meet  me." 

She  made  the  correction  triumphantly  and  con- 
fidently, as  she  would  have  made  it  to  Willard. 
All  this  was  coquetry,  as  she  and  Willard  under- 
stood it,  and  it  was  an  old  game  to  her,  and  a 
childish  game,  but  there  was  something  strangely 
exciting  about  the  fact  that  the  Colonel  under- 
stood it,  too,  and  condescended  to  play  at  it.  It 
was  more  exciting  than  usual  to-night. 

"  Why  should  I  want  to  meet  you?  "  he  said. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Why  weren't  you  downstairs  last  night  when 
I  came  to  see  your  father?  " 

"I  was  tired." 

"You  weren't  running  away  from  me?" 

"No." 


The  Wishing  Moon  257 

"And  you  won't  ever  run  away  from  me?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You're  afraid  of  me." 

"Ami?" 

"Aren't  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Judith.  "Look,  there's 
the  moon." 

It  was  low  above  the  trees,  rising  solemn  and 
round  and  slow.  It  looked  reproachful  and  grave, 
like  Neil's  eyes.  It  was  looking  straight  at  Judith. 
Judith  turned  her  eyes  sternly  away.  What  was 
the  Colonel  saying?  Something  that  did  not 
sound  like  Willard  at  all,  or  like  the  Colonel,  either. 
Nobody  had  ever  spoken  to  her  in  just  that  voice 
before.  It  was  a  choked,  queer  voice.  But 
Judith  smiled  up  at  him  and  listened,  tightening 
the  clasp  of  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  Don't  ever  be  afraid. 
.  .  .  You're  so  sweet  to-night." 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  Judith  defiantly,  straight 
to  the  round,  accusing  moon.  "  I  won't  be  afraid." 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

I  DON'T  like   the  look  of   you,"  said  Mrs. 
Donovan. 
"Then    you're    hard     to    please,"     Neil 
turned  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  to  say,  trying  to 
smile  as  he  said  it.     "Harder  than  I  am.     I  do 
like  the  look  of  you." 

The  Donovans,  mother  and  son,  were  both  quite 
sufficiently  attractive  to  the  eye  at  that  moment. 
This  was  the  second  day  of  September,  and  also 
the  second  day  of  the  county  fair  in  Madison,  five 
miles  away — the  big  day  of  the  fair,  and  Neil's 
uncle  had  been  up  at  dawn  to  escort  the  younger 
Bradys  there  in  a  borrowed  rig,  and  in  the  com- 
pany of  at  least  half  Green  River  in  equipages  of 
varied  style  and  state  of  repair.  Neil  had  slept 
late,  breakfasted  sketchily,  and  dined  elaborately 
alone  with  his  mother.  Now  the  long,  still, 
sunny  afternoon  was  half  over,  and  she  stood  in  the 
kitchen  door,  watching  him  start  for  town. 

The  kitchen,  newly  painted  this  year,  looked 
empty  and  unnaturally  neat  behind  her,  but 
friendly  and  lived  in,  too,  with  the  old,  creaking 
rocker  pulled  to  an  inviting  angle  at  the  window 

258 


The  Wishing  Moon  259 

overlooking  the  marsh,  and  a  sofa  under  the  other 
window,  its  worn  upholstery  covered  freshly  with 
turkey-red;  one  splash  of  clear  colour,  sketched  in 
boldly,  just  in  the  corner  where  it  satisfied  the  eye. 
Her  neighbours  did  not  take  this  humble  fabric 
seriously  for  decorative  purposes;  indeed,  they 
would  not  have  permitted  a  sofa  in  the  kitchen  at 
all,  but  her  neighbours  were  not  of  her  gracious 
race.  They  could  not  wear  a  plain  and  necessary 
white  apron  like  the  completing  touch  to  a  correct 
toilette  assumed  deliberately.  Mrs.  Donovan 
could,  and  she  did  to-day.  Also  her  brown  hair, 
dulled  to  a  softer,  more  indefinite  brown  by  its 
sprinkling  of  white,  rippled  softly  about  her  low 
forehead,  and  her  dress  was  faded  to  a  tender, 
vague  blue  like  the  blue  of  her  eyes.  Her  eyes, 
almost  on  a  level  with  Neil's  as  she  stood  on  the 
step  above  him,  had  the  charm  that  was  peculiarly 
their  own  to-day,  cloudy  as  they  were  with  the 
faraway  look  of  a  race  that  believes  in  fairies,  but 
warm  and  human,  too,  with  an  intimate  mother 
look  of  concern  for  Neil. 

Neil  met  it  steadily,  not  a  sullen  boy  as  he  would 
have  been  under  that  questioning  a  year  ago,  not 
resenting  it  at  all,  but  keeping  his  secrets  deliber- 
ately. It  had  always  been  hard  for  her  to  make 
him  answer  questions.  It  was  not  even  easy  for 
her  to  ask  them  now. 


260  The  Wishing  Moon 

"You  don't  sleep,"  she  began. 

"Neither  do  you,  if  you've  been  catching  me 
at  it,"  reasoned  her  son  correctly. 

"You  work  too  hard."  She  had  made  an  ac- 
cusation that  he  could  not  deny,  so  he  only  smiled 
his  quick,  flashing  smile.  "You  won't  even  take 
a  day  to  yourself." 

"I'll  have  the  office  and  most  of  the  town  to  my- 
self this  afternoon.  I'll  have  to  go.  I've  got 
something  special  to  look  into." 

"Where's  Charlie?"  she  demanded  at  once. 

"Oh,  he's  not  troubling  me  to-day.  He's  safe 
at  Madison  with  his  new  mare.  He'll  break  loose 
there,  then  come  home  and  repent  and  stay  straight 
for  weeks  and  make  no  trouble  for  me.  He's  due 
to  break  loose.  He's  been  good  too  long — too 
good  to  be  true.  He  was  in  fine  form  last  night.'* 
Mr.  Charlie  Brady's  cousin  grinned  reminis- 
cently. 

"What  do  you  mean?' 

"He  gave  me  quite  a  little  side  talk  on  good  form 
in  dress  and  diction.  Charlie  claims  I  won't  make 
an  orator,  and  he  don't  like  my  taste  in  ties." 

"Who  does  he  think  he  is?"  flashed  Mr.  Brady's 
aunt  indignantly. 

"Who  do  you  think  he  is?"  her  son  inquired 
unexpectedly.  "For  whatever  you  think,  that's 
me.  ,  I'm  no  better  than  Charlie." 


The  Wishing  Moon  261 

"Charlie?"  Mrs.  Donovan  gasped,  and  then 
plunged  into  an  indignant  defence  of  her  son,  not 
pausing  to  take  breath. 

"You?"  she  began.  "You  that's  planted  firm 
on  the  ladder  and  right-hand  to  the  Judge  already, 
and  him  getting  older  every  day,  and  Theodore 
Burr  just  kept  on  in  the  office  because  Everard's 
after  Burr's  wife.  So  he  is,  and  the  town  knows  it, 
and  Theodore'll  wake  up  to  it  soon.  A  fine  partner 
Theodore  is  for  the  Judge,  poor  boy,  but  he's  a 
good  boy,  too,  though  none  too  strong  in  the  head; 
Lil  Burr  is  a  good  girl,  too,  and  she'd  make  a  good 
wife  to  Theodore  if  she  could  be  left  to  herself. 
She'd  make  it  up  with  Theodore,  as  many  a  girl 
has  done  that's  got  more  for  her  husband  to  forgive 
than  Lil. 

"Poor  Lil.  Her  head's  high  above  me  now, 
but  the  time  was  she  cried  on  my  shoulder;  crying 
for  Charlie,  she  was,  before  ever  Charlie  took  up 
with  Maggie  and  Lil  with  Theodore;  when  the 
four  of  them  were  all  young  together,  and  the  one 
as  good  as  the  other.  Young  they  were,  and  the 
hearts  of  them  young — wild,  doubtful  hearts. 
Many's  the  time  Lil  would  come  to  me  then,  here 
in  this  same  kitchen,  and  go  down  on  her  knees, 
her  that  was  tall  and  a  fine  figure  of  a  girl,  and 
cling  onto  me,  crying  her  heart  out;  crying  she 
was  for  all  the  world  like — like " 


The  Wishing  Moon 

Mrs.  Donovan  checked  herself  abruptly  with 
shrewd  eyes  upon  her  son. 

"Like  young  things  do  cry,  and  tell  you  their 
troubles  in  tears,  not  words."  She  ended  some- 
what vaguely,  and  came  quickly  back  to  her  main 
subject  again. 

"You  that  can  walk  into  the  big  rally  next  week 
and  sit  with  the  men  that  count,  and  whisper  and 
talk  to  them,  and  hold  your  head  high,  with  noth- 
ing against  you,  and  will  be  sitting  up  on  the  plat- 
form soon,  with  the  best  of  them,  and  be  mayor 
yet,  like  Everard's  going  to  be,  or  governor,  maybe 
— you  to  compare  yourself  with  Charlie,  if  he  is 
my  half-sister's  own  son.  He's  a  drunken  good- 
for-nothing.  He's  got  no  spirit  in  him  if  he'll  stay 
here  at  all,  where  he's  ashamed  himself  and  make 
a  show  of  himself.  How  is  it  he's  able  to  stay? 
Where  does  he  get  the  money  he  spends?  This 
town  don't  pay  it  to  him.  Who  does?" 

"What  put  that  into  your  head?"  her  son  asked 
sharply. 

"There's  talk  enough  of  it,  and  there'll  be 
more.  The  whole  town  will  be  asking  soon." 

"The  town  asks  a  lot  of  questions  it  don't  dare 
hear  the  answers  to,"  said  Neil  softly,  unregarded. 
His  mother  returned  to  her  grievance: 

"You  to  be  likening  yourself  to  Charlie." 

"When  Charlie  was  twenty-five,"  Neil  began 


The  Wishing  Moon  263 

slowly,  "he  was  where  I  will  be  then,  or  better. 
The  Judge  was  a  friend  to  him,  too,  and  the  Judge 
was  a  better  friend  then  to  have.  Charlie  was 
setting  up  for  himself,  well  thought  of.  My  own 
father  trusted  him.  When  I  was  a  boy  and  not 
grown,  Charlie  was  a  son  to  him,  and  more.  He 
was  a  better  spoken  lawyer  than  I'll  ever  make, 
quick  and  smooth  with  his  tongue,  and  he  was 
fine  appearing,  and  put  up  a  better  front  than  I  do. 
I've  gone  part  of  the  road  that  Charlie  went. 
What  will  stop  me  from  going  the  whole  road? 
What's  beat  Charlie  is  strong  enough  to  beat  me. 
.  .  .  Don't  look  so  scared,  mother.  I  don't 
want  to  scare  you.  I  only  want  you  to  be  fair  to 
Charlie." 

"His  heart's  broke,"  she  conceded,  melting. 
"He's  nothing  with  Maggie  gone." 

"His  heart's  broke,  but  that's  not  what  beat 
him,"  her  son  stated  with  authority.  "He  was 
beat  before." 

"When?" 

"He  was  beat,"  Neil  stated  deliberately,  "when 
Everard  moved  to  Green  River." 

This  was  a  sweeping  statement,  but  Neil  did 
not  qualify  it.  He  dropped  the  subject  and  stood 
silent,  turning  absent  eyes  upon  the  green  expanse 
of  marshy  field  that  had  been  the  starting-place 
of  all  his  dreams  when  he  was  a  dream-struck, 


264  The  Wishing  Moon 

gazing  boy.  His  mother's  eyes  followed  his, 
growing  cloudier  and  soft  as  if  even  now  she  could 
read  them  there. 

"Rests  your  eyes,"  Neil  said,  after  a  minute; 
"looks  pretty,  too,  in  the  sun.  It's  a  pretty  green. 
We'll  drain  it,  perhaps,  by  the  time  I'm  mayor  or 
governor.  It  might  pay.  I'll  be  going  now." 

"Neil,  when  did  you  see  her  last?"  asked  his 
mother  suddenly. 

"See  who?"  he  muttered,  and  then  flushed, 
and  straightened  himself,  and  met  her  eyes 
bravely. 

"I  saw  Judith  yesterday,"  he  said,  "on  Main 
Street,  and — she  cut  me." 

"Did  she  walk  past  you?" 

"No,  she  wouldn't  do  that.  She  pretended  not 
to  see  me,  but  she  saw  me,  all  right.  She  passed 
me  in  an  automobile." 

"Whose?" 

"One  of  Everard's." 

"Was  he  with  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Neil,"  his  mother  began  a  little  breatibiessly, 
"I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I've  said  hard 
things  to  you,  and  they  weren't  deserved.  I  know 
it  now,  and  I'm  sorry.  I  want  to  take  them  all 
back.  I've  said  hard  things  about  Judith  Ran- 
dall." 


The  Wishing  Moon  265 

She  hurried  on,  afraid  of  being  stopped,  but  he 
made  no  move  to  stop  her.  He  listened  courte- 
ously, his  face  not  changing. 

"Neil,  she's  not  what  I  thought.  There's  no 
harm  in  her.  There's  no  pride  in  her.  She's 
just  lonesome.  She's  just  a  young,  young  girl. 
She's  sweet-spoken  and  sweet-faced.  Neil,  from 
all  I  hear " 

"You  didn't  hear  all  this  direct  from — Judith, 
then?" 

"Judith?"  she  hesitated,  flashing  a  questioning 
glance  at  him.  "Is  it  likely?  How  would  I  get 
the  chance?  But  from  all  I  hear,  she's  too  good 
for  Everard  and  the  like.  And  she's  not  safe 
with  them.  She  needs " 

"What?"  interrupted  her  son  gravely,  with  the 
air  of  seeking  information  on  a  subject  quite 
strange  to  him  and  rather  distasteful.  But  she 
tried  to  go  on. 

"—Judith  needs — any  one  that's  fond  of  her,  any 
one  that  she's  fond  of,  to  be  good  to  her  now.  I've 
seen  her,  and  it's  in  the  eyes  of  her.  No  man  ever 
knows  just  what  a  woman  is  grieving  for,  but  that's 
all  one  if  he'll  comfort  her  when  she's  grieving. 
She  needs " 

Neil's  eyes  were  expressionless.  She  sighed  and 
put  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "Have  it 
your  own  way,"  she  said.  "I'll  say  no  more." 


266  The  Wishing  Moon 

Neil  caught  at  one  of  the  hands  on  his  shoulders 
and  kissed  it. 

"For  one  thing,"  he  said,  "Judith  or  any  girl 
needs  a  mother  with  a  heart  in  her — like  I've  got, 
but  you're  the  one  in  the  world.  I'm  going." 

But  he  did  not  go  at  once.  Standing  beside  her, 
suddenly  awkward  and  shy,  he  first  gave  her  the 
confidence  that  she  could  not  force  from  him,  all 
in  one  generous  breathless  burst  of  words. 

"Mother,  Charlie's  not  the  only  one  with  his 
heart  broke.  But  heart-break  isn't  the  worst 
thing  I've  got  to  bear.  There's  something  else. 
I  can't  tell  you.  I'd  rather  bear  it  alone.  I've 
got  to.  Good-bye." 

Then  he  left  her  standing  still  in  the  door,  shad- 
ing her  cloudy  blue  eyes  with  one  small  hand  and 
looking  after  him.  He  swung  into  the  dusty  road 
and,  keeping  his  head  high  and  his  eyes  straight 
ahead,  undazzled  by  the  sharp  sunlight  of  mid- 
afternoon  on  the  long  stretch  of  unshaded  way, 
passed  out  of  sight  toward  Green  River. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

NEIL  turned  into  Post-office  Square  just 
on  the  stroke  of  four.    The  square  was  as 
empty  and   strange  to  the  eye  as  his 
mother's  kitchen,  though  this  was  the  rush  hour  of 
the   day  in  that  business  centre  upon  ordinary 
days,  when  the  fair  had  not  emptied  the  town. 

A  solitary  Ford  of  prehistoric  make  stood  before 
the  post-office,  and  even  that  was  just  cranking  up. 
It  lurched  dispiritedly  off,  leaving  a  cloud  of  dust 
behind.  A  dejected-looking  group  of  children 
hung  about  the  door  of  the  ice-cream  parlour,  and 
appeared  to  lack  the  initiative  to  enter  in.  Hah* 
the  shops  were  shut.  In  the  big  show-window 
of  the  central  section  of  Ward's  Emporium  Luther 
Ward,  usually  on  parade  and  magnificently  in 
charge  of  his  shop  and  his  staff  of  employees  at 
this  time  of  day,  stood  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  em- 
bracing an  abnormally  slender  lady  in  a  mauve 
velveteen  tailored  suit. 

At  first  glance  he  seemed  to  be  instructing  her  in 
the  latest  dance  steps,  but  on  a  nearer  view  the 
visible  part  of  her  proved  to  be  wax,  and  the  suit 
was  ticketed  nineteen-fifty.  He  jerked  her  into 

267 


268  The  Wishing  Moon 

place,  turned  and  saw  Neil,  and  hailed  him  cheer- 
fully, waving  him  round  to  the  main  entrance 
door,  where  he  joined  him,  still  wiping  his  brow. 

"If  you  want  a  thing  well  done,  do  it  yourself," 
he  said,  explaining  his  late  exertions  with  the  air 
of  believing  the  explanation  was  original  with  him 
and  did  credit  to  his  intellect.  "What  are  you 
here  for*  brother?  Isn't  Madison  good  enough 
for  you?" 

"No,"  Neil  said.  "Not  with  the  big  race 
called  off." 

"Called  off?    How's  that?" 

"Because  you  weren't  there,  Luther." 

Mr.  Ward  gave  a  gratified  laugh  at  this  graceful 
compliment,  and  descended  to  facts. 

"I'm  too  old  for  horse  racing.  It's  my  boy's 
turn.  He  went  over  with  Willard  Nash's  crowd 
to-day.  Why  didn't  you?"  Mr.  Ward  de- 
manded severely. 

"Oh,  Willard  asked  me  all  right.  He's  quite 
strong  for  me  now."  Mr.  Ward  had  doubted  this, 
being  on  the  watch  for  slights  to  Neil  and  resent- 
ing them,  though  he  never  made  an  effort  to  pre- 
vent them.  This  was  the  usual  attitude  of  Neil's 
more  influential  friends. 

"Willard's  a  shrimp,"  said  Mr.  Ward  gruffly. 
"And  I  like  you,"  he  added  in  a  burst  of  frankness. 
"I  always  did  like  you,  Neil.  You've  pulled 


The  Wishing  Moon  269 

yourself  up  by  your  boot-straps,  and  I  hope  you 
hang  on  to  them  tight.  There's  nobody  better 
pleased  than  I  am.  Oh,  I  got  a  rig  and  sent  all 
the  help  from  the  store  over  to  the  fair  to-day,"  he 
added,  turning  quickly  to  impersonal  subjects. 

"You  always  do  treat  them  right." 

"Well,  this  wasn't  my  idea.  I  got  it  from  the 
Colonel."  A  look  of  harmless  but  plainly  evident 
pride  came  into  Mr.  Ward's  open  and  ruddy  coun- 
tenance as  he  mentioned  the  great  man's  name. 
It  was  only  the  week  before  that  he  had  received 
his  first  dinner  invitation  from  the  Everards.  It 
came  at  the  eleventh  hour  and  did  not  include  his 
wife,  but  he  was  dazzled  by  it  still.  "You  know 
what  he's  doing?  Closing  his  house,  practically, 
for  all  three  days  of  the  fair,  and  sending  all  the 
help  on  the  place  over  there — two  touring  cars 
full.  It's  a  fine  thing  for  them.  They're  high- 
class  help  and  don't  have  it  any  too  interesting 
down  here.  Anybody  that  says  he's  not  demo- 
cratic don't  know  the  Colonel.  This  town  don't 
half  know  him  yet." 

"You're  right,"  Neil  put  in  softly. 

"Democratic,"  declaimed  Mr.  Ward,  "and 
public  spirited.  Look  at  the  fountain  he's  going 
to  put  up  in  the  square.  Look  at  the  old  Grant 
house  going  to  be  fitted  up  for  a  library.  Look  at 
him  running  for  mayor,  when  he's  been  turning 


270  The  Wishing  Moon 

down  chances  at  bigger  offices  for  years — willing 
to  stay  here  and  serve  for  the  good  of  the  town. 
There's  talk  against  him  more  than  ever  this 
year.  I  know  that.  It  amounts  to  an  indigna- 
tion meeting  when  the  boys  get  together  at  Hallo- 
ran's.  Well,  failures  hate  a  successful  man,  and 
their  talk  don't  count.  It  will  die  down.  But  I 
hate  to  hear  of  it.  For  the  Colonel's  put  this 
town  on  the  map.  He's  not  perfect,  but  who  is? 
And  suppose  he  does  have  a  good  time  his  own  way? 
We've  got  a  right  to — all  of  us.  It's  a  free 
country." 

Mr.  Ward  delivered  this  last  sentiment  with 
touching  faith  in  its  force  and  freshness,  and  waved 
a  plump  hand  of  invitation  toward  the  little  pri- 
vate office  back  of  the  main  section  of  his  store, 
where  he  had  developed  his  unfailing  eloquence 
of  speech  upon  subjects  of  public  interest,  and 
liked  best  to  practise  it.  But  Neil,  himself  lis- 
tened to  with  growing  deference  by  the  groups  that 
forgathered  there,  was  not  to  be  lured  to  that 
sanctum  to-day.  Speaking  hastily  and  vaguely 
of  work  to  be  done,  he  escaped  from  his  good  friend 
and  across  the  street  to  Judge  Saxon's  office. 

He  climbed  the  stairs  heavily,  and  did  not 
linger  before  the  door  to  picture  the  sign  changed 
to  "Saxon,  Burr,  and  Donovan,"  as  he  had  done 
more  times  than  he  cared  to  admit.  The  office 


The  Wishing  Moon  271 

was  not  a  thing  to  be  proud  of  as  a  step  up  in  life 
for  him  to-day;  it  was  a  place  to  be  alone  in,  as 
men  feel  alone  and  safe  in  the  place  that  is  their 
own  because  they  have  worked  there. 

Showing  this  in  every  move,  Neil  locked  the 
door,  threw  off  his  cap,  and  dropped  into  the 
broken-springed  chair  at  the  desk  that  was  nom- 
inally Theodore  Burr's,  but  really  his.  He  groped 
mechanically  for  the  handle  of  the  drawer  where 
he  usually  rested  his  feet,  found  it  hard  to  open, 
gave  up  the  attempt  and,  leaning  back  without  its 
support,  stared  at  Mr.  Burr's  ornate,  brass- 
mounted  blotter  with  unseeing  eyes. 

Sitting  there,  he  was  no  longer  the  boy  who  had 
the  privilege  of  intimate  talk  with  prominent 
citizens  like  Mr.  Ward  and  valued  it;  or  the  boy 
who  had  laughed  at  his  mother's  anxiety  so 
bravely.  He  was  not  even  the  boy  that  he  used 
to  be,  sullen,  but  rebellious,  too.  To-day  for  the 
first  time  he  was  something  worse,  a  defeated  boy. 
The  long  minutes  dragged  like  hours,  and  he  sat 
through  them  as  he  would  have  sat  through  hours, 
silent  and  motionless,  losing  run  of  time  and  ac- 
knowledging defeat. 

For  there  was  something  that  this  boy  wanted, 
and  had  always  wanted,  as  he  could  never  want 
other  things,  even  success  or  love,  as  a  boy  or  a 
man  can  want  one  thing  only  in  one  lifetime.  It 


272  The  Wishing  Moon 

was  a  remote  and  preposterous  dream  that  he 
had,  a  dream  that  nobody  else  in  Green  River 
was  foolhardy  enough  to  cherish  long,  but  this 
boy  belonged  to  the  race  of  poets  and  dreamers, 
the  race  that  must  sometimes  dream  true,  because 
it  always  dreams.  His  dream  had  taken  different 
forms:  sometimes  he  saw  himself  doing  desperate 
things,  setting  fire  to  a  house  that  he  knew  and 
hated,  striking  a  blow  in  the  dark  for  which  no- 
body thanked  him,  but  the  issue  was  always  the 
same,  and  the  dream  never  left  him.  He  was  to 
find  Green  River  a  new  master.  He  was  to  save 
the  town.  That  was  his  dream.  It  had  never 
left  him  till  now. 

He  was  only  a  lean,  tense  boy,  crouched  over  a 
battered  desk  and  staring  out  of  the  window  at  a 
country  street  with  absent,  beautiful  eyes,  but  he 
was  living  through  a  tragic  hour;  the  terrible  hour 
that  poets  and  dreamers  know  when  they  lose 
hold  upon  their  dreams.  Measured  by  minutes t 
this  hour  was  not  long.  Neil  passed  a  hand  across 
his  forehead  and  sat  up,  reaching  for  his  cap  in  a 
dazed  way,  for  he  was  not  to  be  permitted  to  hide 
longer  from  his  trouble  here.  The  plump  and  per- 
sonable figure  of  Mr.  Theodore  Burr  was  crossing 
the  square  and  disappearing  into  the  door  below. 
His  unhurried  step  climbed  the  stairs.  Neil 
opened  the  door  to  him. 


The  Wishing  Moon  273 

"Hello,  stranger.  Why  aren't  you  at  Madi- 
son?" Neil  said. 

"I  didn't  go,"  said  Mr.  Burr  lucidly.  "Where 
are  you  going?  I  don't  want  to  drive  you  away 
from  here." 

"Oh,  just  out.     I  was  going  anyway." 

"You  don't  invite  me.  I  don't  blame  you. 
I'm  poor  company,  and  I've  got  business  to  at- 
tend to  here." 

"No!" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  have  business  here?"  snapped 
Mr.  Burr. 

"You  should,  you  should,  Theodore.     Say"- 
the   question   had   been   troubling   Neil   subcon- 
sciously all  the  time  he  sat  at  the  desk — "what's 
wrong  with  that  lower  drawer?     I  can't  open  it." 

"It's  locked." 

"What  for?" 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Burr  with  dignity,  "is  my 
private  drawer — for  private  papers." 

"Papers!"  Mr.  Burr's  private  papers  were 
known  to  consist  chiefly  of  a  file  of  receipted  bills 
and  a  larger  file  of  unreceipted  bills,  both  kept 
with  his  usual  fastidious  neatness.  "What 
papers?" 

"That's  my  business.  I've  got  some  rights 
here,  if  I  am  a  figurehead.  I've  got  some  priv- 
ileges." 


274  The  Wishing  Moon 

" Sure.     Don't  you  feel  right  to-day,  Theodore?" 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Burr,  "is  my  business,  too." 

Neil  stared  at  his  friend.  Mr.  Burr  was  fault- 
lessly groomed,  as  always,  his  tie  was  of  the  vivid 
and  unique  blue  that  he  affected  so  often,  and  a 
very  recent  close  shave  had  acted  upon  him  as 
usual,  giving  him  a  pink  and  new-born  appearance, 
but  his  eyes  looked  old  and  tired,  as  if  he  had  not 
slept  for  weeks  and  had  no  immediate  prospect 
of  sleeping,  and  there  were  lines  of  strain  about 
his  weak  mouth.  He  was  not  himself.  Even  a 
boy  preoccupied  with  his  own  troubles  could  not 
ignore  it. 

"Don't  you  feel  right?"  Neil  said.  "Don't 
you  want  me  to  do  something,  Theodore?" 

"Yes.  Get  out  of  here.  Leave  me  alone," 
Mr.  Burr  snapped  angrily. 

"Sure,"  said  Neil  soothingly. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Burr  gripped  Neil's  reluctant, 
shy,  boy's  hand,  kept  it  in  his  for  a  minute  in 
silence,  and  then  abruptly  let  it  go,  pushing  Neil 
toward  the  door. 

"Don't  begrudge  me  one  locked  drawer  when 
you'll  own  the  whole  place  some  day,"  he  said, 
with  all  the  dignity  that  his  fretful  burst  of  irrita- 
tion had  lacked.  "I'd  like  to  see  that  day. 
You're  a  good  boy,  Donovan." 

"You're    not    right.     You've    got    a    grouch. 


The  Wishing  Moon  275 

Come  with  me  and  walk  it  off,"  Neil  said  uneasily, 
but  he  did  not  press  the  invitation,  and  his  friend 
had  little  more  to  say.  His  silence  was  perhaps  the 
most  unusual  thing  about  his  behaviour,  which 
was  all  out  of  key  to-day.  Neil  remembered  after- 
ward that  just  as  he  closed  the  door  upon  Mr. 
Burr  and  his  vagaries,  shutting  them  at  the  same 
time  out  of  his  mind,  Mr.  Burr,  sitting  rather 
heavily  down  in  the  broken-springed  desk  chair, 
was  bending  and  stretching  out  a  faultlessly  mani- 
cured, slightly  unsteady  hand  toward  the  locked 
drawer  of  the  desk. 

Neil  stepped  out  into  the  street  with  a  cautious 
eye  upon  the  Emporium  across  the  way,  but  no 
portly  form  was  in  sight  there  now,  and  no  hearty 
voice  hailed  him.  He  crossed  the  square  and 
turned  north,  walking  quickly,  soon  leaving  the 
larger  houses  behind,  and  then  the  smaller  houses 
above  the  railroad  track,  always  climbing  gradually 
as  he  walked.  Finally,  at  the  entrance  to  an  over- 
grown road  that  led  off  to  his  left,  and  at  the 
highest  point  of  his  long  and  slow  ascent,  he  turned 
and  looked  back  at  the  town. 

The  town  that  Colonel  Everard  had  put  on  the 
map  hardly  deserved  the  honour,  seen  so  in  a 
glitter  of  afternoon  light,  with  the  long,  sloping 
hill  leading  down  to  it,  and  the  white  tower  of  the 
church  pointing  high  above  it,  a  cozy  huddle  of 


276  The  Wishing  Moon 

houses  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  It  looked  unas- 
suming and  sheltered  and  safe,  only  a  group  of 
homes  to  make  a  simple  and  sheltered  home  in. 
The  boy  looked  long  at  it,  then  turned  abruptly 
and  plunged  into  the  road  before  him. 

It  led  straight  across  a  shallow  belt  of  fields  and 
deep  into  the  woods.  Only  a  cart-track  at  first, 
it  soon  lost  itself  here  in  a  path,  and  the  path  in 
turn  grew  fainter  and  became  a  brown,  alluring 
ghost  of  a  path.  It  was  hard  to  trace,  but  this 
was  ground  that  Neil  knew,  a  favourite  haunt  of 
his,  though  few  other  boys  ventured  to  trespass 
here.  The  woods  were  part  of  the  Everard  estate. 

Neil  had  found  his  first  May  flowers  here  on  the 
first  spring  that  he  was  privileged  to  give  them  to 
Judith.  Last  year  she  had  helped  him  look  for 
them  here.  His  errand  here  was  not  so  pleasant 
to-day.  The  brown  path  did  not  really  lead  to 
the  heart  of  the  woods  as  it  seemed  to.  It  was 
not  so  long  as  it  looked.  It  was  a  fairly  direct 
short  cut  to  the  Everard  house. 

The  boy  followed  it  quickly,  with  no  eyes  for 
the  dim  lure  of  the  woods  to-day. 

"You've  beat  me,"  he  muttered  once  to  him- 
self; "I'll  have  a  look  at  you." 

Soon  the  woods  were  not  so  thick.  They  fell 
away  around  him,  carelessly  thinned  at  first, 
littered  with  fallen  trees  and  stumps,  but  nearer 


The  Wishing  Moon  'ill 

the  house  combed  out  accurately  by  the  relentless 
processes  of  landscape  gardening,  and  looking 
orderly  and  empty.  The  little  path  vanished 
entirely  here.  Ahead  of  Neil,  through  a  thin 
fringe  of  trees,  was  the  Colonel's  rose  garden; 
beyond  it,  the  broad  stretch  of  lawn  and  the  house, 
bulky  and  towered  and  tall. 

Neil  broke  through  the  trees  and  stood  and 
looked  at  it,  straight  ahead,  seen  through  the 
frame  of  the  trellised  entrance  to  the  garden, 
upstanding  and  ugly  and  arrogant. 

"You've  beat  me,"  he  said  to  the  Colonel's 
house.  "You've  beat  me;  you  and  him.  I  hate 
you!" 

His  voice  had  a  hollow  sound  in  the  empty  gar- 
den. Garden  and  lawn  and  house  had  the  same 
look  that  the  whole  deserted  town  had  caught 
to-day;  the  look  of  suddenly  empty  rooms  where 
much  life  has  been,  a  breathless  strangeness  that 
holds  echoes  of  what  has  happened  there,  and 
even  hints  of  what  is  to  happen;  haunted  rooms. 
It  is  not  best  to  linger  there.  Neil  turned  uneasily 
toward  the  path  again. 

He  turned,  then  he  turned  back,  stood  for  a 
tense  minute  listening,  then  broke  through  the 
rose  garden  and  began  to  run  across  the  lawn. 
Very  faint  and  small,  so  that  he  could  not  tell 
whether  it  was  in  a  man's  voice  or  a  woman's,  but 


278  The  Wishing  Moon 

echoing  clearly  across  the  deserted  garden,  he  had 
heard  a  scream  from  the  house. 

It  came  from  the  house  somewhere,  though  as 
Neil  ran  toward  it  the  house  still  looked  tenantless. 
The  veranda  was  without  its  usual  gay  litter  of 
cushions  and  books  and  serving  trays.  At  the 
long  windows  that  opened  on  it  all  the  curtains 
were  close  drawn — or  at  all  but  one. 

As  Neil  reached  the  house  he  saw  that  the  middle 
window  was  thrown  high  and  the  long,  pale- 
coloured  curtain  was  dragged  from  its  rod  and 
dangling  over  the  sill.  Just  then  he  heard  a  second 
scream  from  the  house.  It  was  so  choked  and 
faint  that  he  barely  heard  it.  Neil  ran  up  the 
steps  and  slipped  through  the  open  window  into 
the  Everards'  library. 

Little  light  came  through  the  curtained  win- 
dows. The  green  room,  sparsely  scattered  with 
furniture  in  summer  covers  of  light  chintz  that 
glimmered  pale  and  forbidding,  looked  twice  its 
unfriendly  length  in  the  gloom.  There  was  a 
heavy,  dead  scent  of  too  many  flowers  in  the  air. 
On  a  table  across  the  room  a  bowl  of  hothouse 
hyacinths,  just  overturned,  crushed  the  flowers 
with  its  weight  and  dripped  water  into  the  sodden 
rug. 

Neil,  at  the  window  looking  uncertainly  into  the 
half-dark  room,  saw  the  bowl  and  the  white  mass 


The  Wishing  Moon  279 

of  crushed  flowers,  and  then  something  else,  some- 
thing that  shifted  and  stirred  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
room.  He  saw  it  dimly  at  first,  a  dark,  struggling 
group.  There  were  two  men  in  it. 

One  was  a  man  who  had  screamed,  but  he  was 
not  screaming  now.  It  would  hardly  have  been 
convenient  for  him  to  scream,  for  the  other,  the 
smaller  and  slighter  man  of  the  two,  was  clutch- 
ing him  by  the  throat,  gripping  it  with  a  hand  that 
he  could  not  shake  off  as  the  two  figures  swayed 
back  and  forth. 

"Who's  there?"  Neil  cried. 

Nobody  answered  him.  Nobody  needed  to, 
for  just  then  the  two  men  who  seemed  to  be 
fighting  swung  into  the  narrow  strip  of  light  before 
the  uncurtained  window  and  he  could  see  their 
faces.  He  could  see,  too,  that  they  were  not  fight- 
ing now,  though  they  had  seemed  to  be.  The  bigger 
man  was  choked  into  submission  already.  No 
sound  came  from  him  and  he  hung  limp  and  still 
in  the  little  man's  hold.  Just  in  the  centre  of  the 
strip  of  light  the  little  man  relaxed  his  grip,  and  let 
him  fall.  He  dropped  to  the  floor  in  a  limp,  un- 
tidy looking  heap,  and  lay  still  there,  with  the 
light  full  on  his  face,  closed  eyes  and  grinning 
mouth.  The  man  was  Colonel  Everard,  the  man 
who  stood  over  him  was  Charlie  Brady. 

As  Neil  looked  Brady  dropped  on  his  knees 


280  The  Wishing  Moon 

beside  the  Colonel,  felt  for  his  heart,  and  found  it. 
He  knelt  there,  motionless,  holding  his  hand 
pressed  over  it  and  peering  intently  into  his  face. 
Presently  he  got  to  his  feet  deliberately,  gave  a 
deep  sigh  of  entire  content  with  himself,  and 
looked  about  him.  Then  and  not  until  then  he 
saw  Neil.  He  saw  him  without  surprise,  if  with- 
out much  pleasure,  it  appeared. 

"You're  late,"  he  remarked. 

"You  drunken  fool,"  Neil  began  furiously, 
then  stopped,  staring  at  his  cousin.  Whatever 
the  meaning  of  this  exhibition  was,  Charlie  was  not 
drunk.  The  excitement  that  possessed  him  was 
excitement  of  some  other  kind.  It  possessed  him 
entirely,  though  it  was  under  control  for  the  mo- 
ment. His  muscles  twitched  with  it.  His  shoul- 
ders shifted  restlessly.  His  hands  closed  and  un- 
closed. His  eyes  were  strangely  lit,  and  there 
was  an  absent,  exalted  look  about  them.  What- 
ever the  excitement,  it  was  strong — stronger  than 
Charlie.  Neil,  his  eyes  now  used  to  the  half-light, 
could  see  no  weapon  in  the  room,  dropped  on  the 
floor  or  discarded.  Mr.  Brady,  normally  a  cow- 
ard in  his  cups  and  out  of  them,  had  attacked  his 
enemy  with  his  bare  hands. 

"  Charlie,  what's  got  you?  "  Neil  said.  "  What's 
come  to  you?" 

"What's  come  to  him,  there?"  Charlie  said,  in  a 


The  Wishing  Moon  281 

voice  that  was  changed,  too,  and  was  as  remote 
and  as  strange  as  his  eyes,  a  low  voice,  with  the 
deceptive,  terrible  calm  of  gathering  hysteria  about 
it. 

"Look  what's  come  to  him,"  the  voice  went  on. 
"Don't  he  deserve  it,  and  worse?  How  did  I  find 
him  to-day  when  I  broke  in  through  the  window 
there?  At  his  old  tricks  again.  There  was  a 
woman  with  him  in  the  library  there,  when  he 
came  out  to  me.  He  locked  the  door.  She's 
there  now.  Neil,  you'd  better  get  away  from  here. 
I  don't  know  what  you're  doing  here,  but  you'd 
better  go,  and  go  quick." 

He  had  given  this  advice  indifferently.  He 
made  his  next  observation  indifferently,  too,  with 
his  furtive,  absent  eyes  on  the  library  door. 

"I've  killed  him." 

"What's  got  you?     Are  you  crazy?" 

"No — not  now.  You'd  better  go.  I  want  to 
take  a  look  in  there  first.  The  key's  in  the  door." 

"Charlie,  come  back  here." 

The  note  of  command  that  he  was  used  to  re- 
sponding to  in  his  young  cousin's  voice  reached  and 
controlled  Mr.  Brady  even  now;  he  obeyed  and 
swung  round  and  stood  still,  looking  at  Neil. 
Neil's  dark  eyes,  just  above  the  level  of  his  own, 
and  so  like  them,  were  unrecognizable  now.  They 
were  dull  with  anger,  and  they  were  angry  with  him. 


£82  The  Wishing  Moon 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  quavered.  "What's 
the  matter,  Neil?" 

Between  the  two  cousins,  as  they  stood  facing 
each  other,  the  Colonel  lay  ominously  still.  The 
cruel  eyes  did  not  open,  and  the  distorted  mouth 
did  not  change. 

"Look!  You  can  see  for  yourself.  Feel  his 
heart,"  Mr.  Brady  offered,  but  his  cousin's  dark, 
disconcerting  eyes  did  not  leave  his  face.  "  What's 
the  matter,  Neil?  What  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

"I'm  going  to  make  you  talk  out  to  me,"  Neil 
said.  "You'll  tell  me  what's  got  you,  and  why 
you  did  this,  which  will  be  the  ruin  of  you  and  me, 
too,  but  first  you'll  tell  me  something  else.  You'll 
tell  me  what  you've  hid  from  me  for  a  year,  you 
who  can  tell  me  the  truth  when  you're  drunk  and  lie 
out  of  it  when  you're  sober,  till  you've  worn  me 
out  and  I'm  sick  of  trying  to  get  the  truth  from 
you.  I'll  be  getting  it  now  too  late,  but  I'll  get 
it.  Have  you  or  have  you  not  been  living  on  this 
man's  money?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  it  hush  money?" 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Brady  said.  "Neil,  I'll  tell  you 
everything.  You've  guessed  most  of  it,  but  I'll 
tell  you  the  rest.  I  can  prove  it.  I  can  prove 
everything  I  know.  I  did  take  hush  money.  It 


The  Wishing  Moon  283 

was  dirty  money,  but  I  didn't  care.  I  didn't  care 
what  happened.  I  didn't  care  till  to-day." 

"To-day?" 

"I  got— a  letter." 

"Go  on,"  Neil  said. 

As  he  spoke  Mr.  Brady's  face  began  suddenly 
to  change,  lighting  again  with  that  strange  ex- 
citement which  had  gripped  him,  revived,  and 
burning  through  its  thin  veneer  of  control.  His 
eyes  blazed  with  it,  and  his  voice  shook  with  it. 
He  waved  a  trembling  hand  toward  the  library 
door.  A  sound  had  come  from  the  library,  the 
faintest  of  sounds,  a  low,  frightened  cry.  It  was 
like  the  ghost  of  a  cry,  but  he  heard.  Neil  heard 
it,  too,  and  was  at  the  door  before  him,  trying  to 
unlock  it,  fumbling  with  the  key. 

"She's  there  yet,"  Mr.  Brady  cried;  "whoever 
she  is.  Well,  she'll  be  the  last  of  them.  I  had  a 
letter,  I  tell  you,  a  letter  from  Maggie.  She's 
coming  home,  what's  left  of  her — what  he's  left 
of  her — Everard.  I  never  thought  he  was  to 
blame.  I  said  he  was,  but  I  was  talked  out  of  it. 
If  I'd  thought  so,  if  I'd  suspected  it,  would  I  have 
touched  a  penny  of  his  dirty  money?  But  she's 
coming  home.  Maggie's  coming  home." 

For  the  moment  Neil  was  not  concerned  with  the 
fact.  Graver  revelations  might  have  passed  over 
him  unheeded.  The  key  had  turned  at  last. 


284  The  Wishing  Moon 

Then  Neil  felt  the  door  being  pushed  open  from 
inside.  He  stepped  back  and  waited.  The  door 
opened  cautiously  for  an  inch  or  two,  then  swung 
suddenly  wide.  Standing  motionless,  framed  in 
the  library  door,  was  Judith. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 


r  1  HE  two  cousins,  Mr.  Brady  shocked  into 
sudden  silence,  stood  with  Colonel  Ever- 

JL  ard's  unconscious  body  behind  them,  un- 
regarded, like  any  other  bulky  and  motionless  shape 
in  the  dim  room,  and  stared  at  the  girl  who  had 
come  from  the  locked  library. 

"Not  you,"  Neil's  voice  said  dully.  "Not 
here." 

But  the  girl  was  Judith. 

Bare-headed,  slender  in  soft-falling  white,  she 
stood  in  the  library  door  with  both  hands  behind 
her,  clasping  her  big,  limp  hat  by  its  flaring  brim. 
Her  lightly  poised,  blond  head  was  fluffy  with 
small,  escaping  curls,  her  clear-coloured  cheeks 
were  warmly  flushed,  and  between  her  red,  slightly 
parted  lips  her  breath  came  too  quickly,  but  softly, 
still.  A  sheer,  torn  ruffle  trailed  from  her  skirt. 
One  rose-coloured  bow  hung  from  her  girdle  awry 
and  crushed,  and  looked  the  softer  for  that,  like 
a  crumpled  flower. 

About  her  dress  and  her  whole  small  self  there 
was  a  drooping  and  crumpled  look.  It  was  the 
look  of  a  child  that  has  played  too  hard.  Surely 

285 


286  The  Wishing  Moon 

the  most  incongruous  and  pathetic  little  figure 
that  had  ever  appeared  from  a  room  where  a  dis- 
tressed or  designing  lady  was  suspected  of  hiding, 
she  stood  and  returned  Neil's  look,  but  there  was 
blank  panic  in  her  eyes. 

They  turned  from  Neil  to  Mr.  Brady,  wild  eyed 
and  pale  beside  him,  to  the  disordered  room,  and 
back  to  Neil  again,  with  no  change  of  expression  at 
all.  They  were  wide  and  dilated  and  dark,  in- 
tent still  on  some  picture  that  they  held  and  could 
not  let  go.  Judith  came  an  uncertain  step  or  two 
forward  into  the  room,  stiffly,  as  if  she  were  walk- 
ing in  her  sleep,  and  stood  still. 

"Neil,  what  did  you  come  here  for?"  she  said. 
"I'm  glad  you  came." 

Her  voice  was  sweet  and  expressionless,  like  her 
eyes,  and  though  she  had  called  Neil  by  name, 
she  looked  at  him  as  if  she  had  never  seen  him  be- 
fore. One  small  hand  reached  out  uncertainly, 
pulled  at  his  sleeve,  and  then,  as  he  made  no  move 
to  take  it,  dropped  again,  and  began  to  finger  the 
big  hat  that  she  held,  and  pluck  at  the  flowers  on 
it,  but  her  eyes  did  not  leave  his  face. 

"Will  they  stand  for  this?"  Mr.  Brady  was  de- 
manding incoherently  behind  them,  "as  young  as 
this?  Will  the  town  stand  it?  No.  And  they 
won't  blame  me  now.  They  can't.  It  was  com- 
ing to  you — you " 


The  Wishing  Moon  287 

He  was  in  the  grip  of  his  own  troubles  again, 
and  breaking  into  little  mutterings  of  hysterical 
speech,  which  he  now  addressed  directly  to  Colonel 
Everard,  standing  over  him  and  not  seeming  to 
feel  the  need  of  an  answer.  It  was  an  uncanny 
proceeding.  The  girl  and  boy  did  not  watch  it. 
They  were  seeing  only  each  other. 

"Judith,"  Neil  began  stumblingly,  "what  were 
you  doing  there?  What's  frightened  you  so? 
What  you  heard  out  here?  That's  all  that  fright- 
ened you,  isn't  it?  Isn't  it?  But  what  made 
you  come  here  alone  like  this?  Didn't  you 
know Oh,  Judith " 

He  stopped  and  looked  down  at  her,  saying 
nothing,  but  his  eyes  were  troubled  and  dark 
with  questions  that  he  did  not  dare  to  ask.  There 
was  no  answer  to  them  in  Judith's  eyes,  only 
blank  fear.  As  Neil  looked,  the  fear  in  Judith's 
eyes  was  reflected  in  his,  creeping  into  them  and 
taking  possession  there. 

"Oh,  Judith,"  he  whispered  miserably.  "Oh, 
Judith." 

Judith  seemed  to  have  heard  what  he  said  to 
her  from  far  away,  and  to  be  only  faintly  puzzled 
by  it,  not  interested  or  touched.  Her  eyes  kept 
their  secrets  under  his  questioning  eyes.  They 
defied  him.  She  was  not  like  his  little  lost  sweet- 
heart found  again,  but  a  stranger  and  an  enemy, 


288  The  Wishing  Moon 

one  of  the  people  he  hated,  people  who  intrigued 
and  lied,  but  were  out  of  his  reach  and  above  him, 
and  were  all  his  enemies. 

The  boy's  world  was  upsetting.  Nothing  that 
had  happened  to  him  in  that  room  or  ever  had 
happened  to  him  before  had  shaken  it  like  that 
minute  of  doubt  that  he  lived  through  in  silence, 
with  the  strain  of  it  showing  in  his  pale  face,  and 
Charlie's  voice  echoing  half  heard  in  his  ears. 
He  drew  back  from  Judith  slightly  as  they  stood. 
He  was  trembling.  Judith's  face  was  a  blur  of 
white  before  his  eyes,  then  he  could  not  see  it — 
and  then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  his  black 
minute  was  over. 

"Take  me  away.  I  don't  want  to  stay  where 
he  is  any  more.  Is  he  dead?"  Judith  said,  and 
she  slipped  her  hand  into  Neil's. 

Judith's  voice  was  as  lifeless  and  strange  as 
before,  and  the  hand  in  his  was  cold,  but  it  was 
Judith's  own  little  clinging  hand,  and  the  boy's 
hand  closed  on  it  tight.  He  stood  still,  feeling 
it  in  his,  and  holding  it  as  if  the  poor  little  cold 
hand  could  give  him  back  all  his  strength  again. 
He  looked  round  him  at  the  dim  room  and  its 
motionless  owner  and  Charlie  as  if  he  were  seeing 
them  clearly  for  the  first  time.  He  was  not  angry 
with  Charlie  any  longer.  He  was  not  angry  at  all. 
He  drew  a  deep,  sobbing  breath  of  relief,  dropped 


The  Wishing  Moon  289 

his  dark  head  suddenly  and  awkwardly  toward 
Judith's  unresponsive  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  then 
very  gently  let  it  go. 

"Judith,  you're  you,"  he  said,  "just  you,  no 
matter  what  happens,  and  nothing  else  matters; 
nothing  in  the  world,  as  long  as  you  are  you." 

Judith  only  smiled  her  faint  half  smile  at  him, 
as  if  she  guessed  that  some  crisis  had  come  and 
passed,  but  did  not  greatly  care. 

"Take  me  away,"  she  repeated  patiently.  "I 
thought  there'd  be  other  people  here.  He  said 
so.  But  I've  come  here  alone  before,  only  he  was 
different  to-day.  He  was  different." 

"  Don't  tell  me.  I  don't  want  to  know.  I  won't 
ever  ask  you  again.  I  never  ought  to  have  asked 
you.  It's  all  right,  dear.  It's  all  right." 

"I  didn't  know  people  were  like  that — any- 
body, ever.  I  just  didn't  know '*' 

"Don't,  dear,"  said  Neil  sharply.  The  small, 
bewildered  voice  that  held  more  wonder  and  pain 
than  her  words  broke  off,  but  her  bewildered  eyes 
still  wondered  and  grieved.  Neil's  arms  went  out 
to  her  suddenly  and  drew  her  close,  holding  her 
gently,  and  hiding  her  small,  pathetic  face  against 
his  shoulder. 

"Don't,"  he  whispered.  "I'll  take  care  of  you. 
I'm  going  to  take  care  of  you.  Nobody's  going  to 
hurt  you  any  more." 


290  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Neil,  I  just  didn't  know.     I  didn't  know." 
"It's  all  right.     I'm  going  to  take  you  away. 
Just   wait,   dear.       I'm   going  to  take  care  of 

you." 

He  spoke  to  her  softly,  saying  the  same  thing 
over  and  over,  as  if  he  were  quieting  a  frightened 
child.  She  was  quiet  in  his  arms  like  a  frightened 
and  tired  child  in  any  arms  held  out  to  it.  One 
arm  had  slipped  round  his  neck  and  clung  to  him. 
She  drew  long  choking  breaths  as  if  she  were  too 
tired  to  cry.  Gradually  they  stopped,  but  the 
arm  round  his  neck  only  clung  tighter. 

"Don't  leave  me,"  she  whispered. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to.  I'm  going  to  take 
care  of  you.  You  know  that,  don't  you,  Judith?" 

"Yes.     Neil?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Neil."  Still  in  his  arms,  because  she  felt  safe 
and  protected  there,  Judith  lifted  her  head  and 
looked  at  him,  and  into  her  sweet,  dazed  eyes,  full 
of  a  terror  that  she  could  not  understand,  came  a 
faint  flash  of  anger.  This  boy  who  held  her  so 
safe  and  comforted  was  her  enemy,  too.  Long 
before  the  ugly  accident  of  what  had  happened 
behind  the  library  doors  he  had  been  her  enemy, 
and  he  was  her  enemy  now,  though  she  needed 
his  protection  and  took  it.  Their  quarrel  was  not 
over. 


The  Wishing  Moon  291 

"Neil,  I  don't  forgive  you.  I'm  never  going 
to  forgive  you." 

"All  right,  dear." 

"And  I  hate  you.  You  know  that,  don't  you? 
I  hate  you." 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know  it.  We  aren't  going  to  talk 
about  that  now.  Let  me  go." 

Both  arms  were  round  him  now.  Judith  let 
him  draw  them  gently  apart  and  down,  and  drew 
back  from  him.  The  anger  was  gone  from  her 
eyes.  She  watched  him  wide  eyed  and  still,  as 
children  watch  the  incomprehensible  activities 
of  grownups,  or  devoted  but  jealous  dogs  watch 
them. 

"Don't  leave  me,"  she  said.  "You're  sweet  to 
me."  Then  she  gave  a  sharp,  startled  little  cry. 

"Neil,"  she  begged,  "don't  touch  him.  I 
don't  want  you  to  touch  him.  What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

The  light  had  not  had  time  to  dim  or  shift  per- 
ceptibly in  Colonel  Everard's  big  room  while  so 
much  was  settling  itself  for  Neil  and  Judith. 
The  Colonel  still  lay  with  the  pale  shaft  of  after- 
noon light  on  his  unconscious  face.  Now  the  boy 
was  kneeling  beside  him.  He  slipped  a  strong, 
careful  arm  under  his  shoulders,  and  bent  over 
him,  touching  him  with  quick,  sure  hands.  He 
ignored  Mr.  Brady,  who  stood  crying  out  inco- 


292  The  Wishing  Moon 

herent  protests  beside  him,  and  finally  put  a  shak- 
ing hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Neil  shook  it  off,  and  rose  and  stood  facing  his 
cousin. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"You  had  me  going  at  first,  Charlie,  when  I  came 
in  here  and  saw  what  a  pretty  picture  you  made. 
I  believed  you.  I  thought  you  had  killed  him. 
I  might  have  known  things  like  that  don't  happen 
in  Green  River." 

Neil  put  both  hands  on  his  cousin's  shoulders 
and  looked  at  him.  Mr.  Brady  was  not  an  at- 
tractive sight  at  that  moment.  The  excitement 
that  had  held  and  swayed  him  was  leaving  him 
now,  and  he  looked  shaken  and  weak.  An  un- 
healthy colour  purpled  his  cheeks,  and  his  sullen 
eyes  glared  vindictively,  but  could  not  meet  Neil's 
eyes. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,"  he  muttered.  "  Don't  you 
dare  to  laugh  at  me." 

" Going  to  beat  me  up,  too?"  his  cousin  inquired. 
"Poor  old  Charlie!  Let's  hope  your  friend  there 
will  laugh  at  you  when  he  talks  this  over  with  you. 
He'll  come  out  of  this  all  right,  but  he'll  be  in  a 
better  temper  if  he  has  a  doctor  here.  I'll  'phone 
for  one." 

"What  do  you  mean?  I've  killed  him.  I'm 
glad  I  killed  him.  " 


The  Wishing  Moon  29S 

His  cousin  laughed  again.  "Killed  him?  The 
man's  no  more  dead  than  you  are.  You've 
knocked  him  out,  that's  all.  But  you  didn't  kill 
him.  Is  that  the  'phone  over  there?" 

A  desk  telephone  on  a  big  Louis  Quinze  table 
at  one  end  of  the  room,  the  instrument  masked 
by  the  frilly  skirts  of  a  French  mannequin,  perhaps 
the  only  lady  who  had  ever  been  permitted  to  be 
insipid  in  that  room  and  to  stay  there  long,  an- 
swered Neil's  question  by  ringing  faintly,  once  and 
again.  Neil  started  toward  it,  but  did  not  reach 
it.  Mr.  Brady  had  flung  himself  suddenly  upon 
him  in  a  last  burst  of  feverish  strength,  which  he 
dissipated  recklessly  by  shrieking  out  incoherent 
things,  and  striking  misdirected  blows. 

Neil  parried  them  easily,  caught  his  thin  arms 
and  held  them  at  his  sides.  Keeping  them  so,  he 
forced  him  against  the  edge  of  the  flimsy  table 
and  held  him  there  and  looked  at  him. 

"You  shan't  answer  that  'phone,"  Mr.  Brady 
cried,  in  a  last  futile  burst  of  defiance.  "You 
shan't  stop  me.  You  shan't  interfere.  I'll  kill 
him,  I  tell  you,  and  you  shan't  answer  that  'phone. 
You  shan't " 

Mr.  Brady's  voice  died  away,  and  he  was  silent 
under  his  cousin's  eyes. 

"Through?"  said  Neil  presently. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered. 


294  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Do  you  mean  it?" 

Mr.  Brady  nodded  sullenly. 

"You've  made  a  fool  of  yourself?" 

Mr.  Brady  nodded  again. 

"Neil,"  he  got  out  presently,  "I  can  make  it  up 
to  you.  I  haven't  been  square  with  you,  but  I  can. 
I  will.  You  don't  know " 

"  You've  done  talking  enough.   Will  you  go  now  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"You'll  quiet  down  and  go  to  mother's  and  stay 
there  till  I  come?" 

"Yes." 

Neil  let  him  go. 

"  Maybe  I'll  finish  up  your  friend  for  you  myself, 
Charlie,  after  you  leave  here,"  he  offered.  "I've 
thought  of  it  often  enough.  Now  I  come  here  and 
fight  for  him  instead  of  fighting  against  him.  I 
fight  with  you.  Poor  old  Charlie.  Murder  and 
sudden  death!  I  tell  you,  things  like  that  don't 
happen  hi  Green  River." 

Neil  stopped  talking  suddenly.  The  telephone 
at  his  elbow  had  rung  again,  this  time  with  a  sharp, 
sudden  peal,  peremptory  as  an  impatient  voice 
speaking.  Neil  caught  it  up,  jerked  off  the  sim- 
pering lady  by  her  audacious  hat,  and  answered. 

At  once,  strangely  intimate  and  near  in  that 
room  where  the  three  had  been  shut  in  for  the  last 
half  hour  alone  and  away  from  the  rest  of  the  world 


The  Wishing  Moon  295 

while  it  went  on  as  usual  or  faster,  a  man's  voice 
spoke  to  him.  It  was  almost  unrecognizable,  so 
excited  and  hoarse,  but  it  was  Luther  Ward's. 

"Hello,"  Neil  said.  "Hello.  Yes,  this  is  Ever- 
ards'.  No,  he  can't  come  to  the  'phone.  He — 
what?  What's  that?" 

Neil  stopped  and  listened  breathlessly.  Mr. 
Brady,  slinking  head  down  from  the  room,  turned 
curiously  to  stare  at  him,  and  Judith,  slipping 
across  the  room  like  a  little  white  ghost,  drew  close 
to  him  and  felt  for  his  hand.  Neil  took  her  hand, 
this  time  with  no  response  of  heart  or  nerves.  He 
had  put  down  the  telephone,  replacing  the  re- 
ceiver mechanically,  but  Luther  Ward's  voice  still 
echoed  in  his  ears. 

It  had  spoken  to  an  uncanny  accompaniment 
of  half-heard  voices,  rattling  unintelligibly  in  the 
room  where  Ward  was,  the  prosaic,  tobacco- 
scented  room  that  Neil  knew  so  well. 

"Tell  Everard  to  come,"  Ward's  voice  had  said. 
"  He's  to  come  down  here,  to  Saxon's  office.  I'm 
there  now.  Theodore  Burr  has  shot  himself, 
yes,  shot  himself.  He  won't  live  through  the  night. 
Who's  this  talking  to  me?  Neil  Donovan,  it's 
you.  What  are  you  doing  at  Everard's?  Never 
mind.  Come  down  here  yourself.  Come  straight 
down.  Theodore's  conscious,  and  talking,  and 
he's  been  asking  for  you." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

GREEN  RIVER  was  getting  ready  for  the 
rally  in  Odd  Fellows'  Hall.  It  was  six 
o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  seventeenth 
of  September,  and  "  Grand  rally,  Odd  Fellows'  Hall, 
September  Seventeenth  at  eight-thirty,"  had  been 
featured  for  weeks  in  the  Green  River  Record,  on 
the  list  that  with  a  somewhat  arrogant  suggestion 
of  prophetic  powers  possessed  by  the  Record  was 
headed  "Coming  Events."  It  was  always  a 
scanty  list,  especially  in  the  fall,  when  ten,  twenty, 
thirty  companies  began  to  play  larger  centres,  and 
church  lawn  parties  and  circuses  could  no  longer 
appear  on  it.  Sometimes  not  more  than  six  events 
were  to  come  in  a  gray  and  workaday  world. 
But  six  were  enough  to  announce.  Even  a  true 
prophet  is  not  expected  to  see  all  the  future,  only 
to  see  clearly  all  that  he  sees,  and  the  Record  did 
that. 

This  rally  was  important  enough  to  be  listed 
all  by  itself,  and  it  did  not  need  the  adjective 
grand.  It  was  The  Rally. 

It  was  Green  River's  own — a  local,  almost  a 
family,  affair.  No  out-of-town  celebrities  were 

296 


The  Wishing  Moon  297 

to  be  imported  this  time,  to  be  listened  to  with 
awe  and  then  wined  and  dined  by  the  Colonel  safe 
from  the  curious  eyes  of  the  town.  This  time  old 
Joe  Grant  was  to  preside,  as  he  had  done  as  a 
matter  of  course  on  all  such  occasions  when  he  was 
the  acknowledged  head  of  the  town  in  political 
and  financial  matters,  in  the  old  days  of  high- 
sounding  oratory  and  simpler  politics  that  were 
gone  forever,  but  were  not  very  long  ago.  Judge 
Saxon,  an  old  timer,  too,  and  better  loved  than 
the  Honourable  Joe,  had  declined  the  honour  of 
presiding,  but  had  the  authentic  offer  of  it,  his 
first  distinction  of  the  kind  for  years. 

It  was  a  local  but  very  important  occasion.  It 
was  Colonel  Everard's  first  official  appearance  as 
candidate  for  mayor.  It  was  to  be  a  very  modest 
appearance.  No  more  time  was  allotted  for  his 
speech  than  for  Luther  Ward's.  He  was  putting 
himself  on  a  level  with  Luther  and  the  Judge  and 
the  Honourable  Joe  and  identifying  himself  at 
last  with  local  politics.  The  evening  emphasized 
the  great  man's  condescension  in  accepting  this 
humble  office  and  honouring  Green  River.  Even 
with  the  scandal  of  Theodore  Burr's  suicide  unex- 
plained still  and  only  two  weeks  old,  interest 
centred  on  the  rally.  It  was  a  triumph  for  the 
town. 

Green  River  was  almost  ready.     Dugan's  or- 


298  The  Wishing  Moon 

chestra  was  engaged  for  the  evening,  instead  of  a 
rival  organization  from  Wells,  which  the  Colonel 
often  imported  upon  private  and  public  occasions. 
Jerry  Dugan  was  getting  old,  too,  like  the  Judge  and 
the  Honourable  Joe.  He  had  not  lost  the  peculiar 
wail  and  lilt  from  his  fiddling,  but  he  had  made  few 
recent  additions  to  his  repertoire.  Just  now  the 
band  concert  in  front  of  Odd  Fellows'  Hall  was 
winding  up  with  his  old  favourite:  "A  Day  on 
the  Battlefield." 

It  had  the  old  swing  still,  contagious  as  ever. 
Loafers  in  front  of  the  hall  shuffled  their  feet  in 
time  to  it.  Moon-struck  young  persons  hanging 
two  by  two  over  the  railings  of  the  bridge  to  gaze 
at  the  water  straightened  themselves  and  listened. 
An  ambitious  soloist  lounging  against  the  court- 
house fence  across  the  square  began  to  whistle  it 
with  elaborate  variations,  at  the  inspiring  moment 
when  "morning  in  the  forest"  had  bird-called  and 
syncopated  itself  into  silence,  and  actual  fighting, 
and  the  martial  music  of  the  charge  began. 

High  and  lilting  and  shrill,  it  hung  in  the  still 
night  air,  alive  for  the  hour,  challenging  the  echoes 
of  dead  tunes  that  lingered  about  the  square,  only 
to  die  away  and  be  one  with  them  at  last;  band 
music,  old-fashioned  band  music,  blatant  and 
empty  and  splendid,  clear  through  the  still  night 
air,  attuned  to  the  night  and  the  town. 


The  Wishing  Moon  299 

"Good  old  tune.  Gets  into  your  feet,"  Judge 
Saxon  said,  while  his  wife  adjusted  his  tie  before 
the  black  walnut  mirror  in  their  bedroom,  but  his 
unual  tribute  to  the  tune  was  perfunctory  to- 
night, and  his  wife  ignored  it,  wisely  taking  this 
moment  of  helpfulness  to  plunge  him  suddenly 
and  briskly  into  a  series  of  questions  which  she  had 
been  trying  in  vain  for  some  time  to  get  the  correct 
answers  to. 

"Hugh,"  she  said,  "why  wouldn't  you  take  the 
chair  to-night?" 

"You  were  the  only  thing  I  ever  tried  to  take 
away  from  Joe  Grant  and  got  away  with  it,  Millie," 
the  Judge  explained  gallantly. 

"Don't  you  think  this  rally  is  like  old  times? 
Don't  you  want  to  see  the  town  stand  on  its  own 
feet  again,  instead  of  being  run  from  outside?" 

"I  do,  Millie." 

Mrs.  Saxon  made  her  next  point  triumphantly, 
connecting  it  with  the  point  before  by  some  obscure 
logic  known  only  to  ladies. 

"Hugh,  a  father  could  not  do  more  for  Lillian 
Burr  than  the  Colonel  has  since  poor  Theodore 
went.  The  house  full  of  flowers,  calling  there  him- 
self every  day  and  twice  a  day,  though  she  won't 
see  him;  but  Lillian  won't  see  any  one.  The 
Colonel's  been  ailing  himself,  too,  but  he  wouldn't 
put  off  the  rally  and  disappoint  the  town.  And 


300  The  Wishing  Moon 

the  new  library  will  open  this  fall,  and  there's 
talk  that  he's  giving  an  organ  to  the  church. 
Hugh,  don't  you  think  Theodore's  death  may  have 
sobered  him?  Don't  you  think  this  may  be  the 
beginning  of  better  things  ?  Don't  you  think ' ' 

"I  think  you're  making  a  butterfly  bow.  I 
don't  like  them,"  said  the  Judge,  with  the  in- 
genuous smile  that  somehow  closed  a  subject. 
She  sighed,  but  changed  her  attack. 

"Turn  round  now.  I  want  to  brush  you. 
Hugh,  what  has  happened  to  Neil  Donovan?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  happened  to  him?" 
snapped  the  Judge,  and  then  added  soberly, 
"I  don't  know,  Millie.  I  wish  I  did." 

"An  Irish  boy  can  get  just  so  far  and  no  farther." 

"How  far,  Millie?" 

"Don't  be  flippant,  Hugh.  There's  something 
strange  about  Neil  lately.  He  didn't  speak  three 
times  at  the  table  last  time  he  came  to  supper  here. 
He  looks  at  me  as  if  he  didn't  know  who  I  was 
when  I  speak  to  him  on  the  street  sometimes. 
There's  no  life  in  him.  He's  like  Charlie  and  all 
the  rest  of  them — giving  out  just  when  things  are 
going  his  way;  that's  an  Irish  boy  every  time." 

"When  things  are  going  his  way?  When  his 
best  friend  has  just  shot  himself?" 

"I  didn't  refer  to  that,  Hugh,"  said  Mrs.  Saxon 
with  dignity. 


The  Wishing  Moon  301 

"No?" 

"I  referred  to  Neil's  family  affairs,  and  the  fact 
that  Colonel  Everard  has  taken  him  up." 

"Maggie  home  and  behaving  herself  and  no 
questions  asked,  Charlie  shipped  to  Wells,  and 
Neil  going  shooting  twice  with  the  Colonel?" 

"Three  times,  Hugh." 

"And  that's  what  you  call  things  going  his 
way." 

"Hugh,  why  should  those  two  spend  any  time 
together  at  all?  They  hate  each  other,  or  I  al- 
ways thought  so — that  is,  if  a  man  like  the  Colo- 
nel could  hate  a  boy  like  Neil.  What  does  he 
want  of  Neil  now?  What  does  Neil  want  of 
him?" 

"They  don't  tell  me,  Millie." 

"But  it's  queer.     It  frightens  me,  Hugh.     It's 


as  queer  as 

"What?" 

"Everything,"  Mrs.  Saxon  said,  goaded  into 
an  exaggeration  foreign  to  her  placid  type,  "every- 
thing, lately.  You  refusing  to  preside  to-night. 
Lillian  Burr  shutting  herself  up  in  this  uncanny 
way.  It  is  uncanny,  even  if  she  is  in  trouble. 
Minna  Randall  taking  to  church  work,  and  sewing 
for  hours  at  a  time,  and  taking  long  drives  with 
her  husband.  They  haven't  been  inside  the 
Colonel's  doors  for  weeks.  Their  second  girl  told 


302  The  Wishing  Moon 

our  Mary  that  they  have  refused  five  invitations 
there  in  the  last  month.  It's  my  idea  that  he 
gave  that  last  stag  dinner  because  he  couldn't  get 
Minna  or  Edith  there,  or  any  woman.  Why 
should  his  own  circle  turn  against  him,  just  when 
he's  doing  real  good  to  the  town?  And  it's  not 
only  his  own  circle  that's  against  him.  I  was 
matching  curtains  at  Ward's  when  Sebastian 
came  in  to-day,  and  Luther  Ward  was  barely 
civil  to  him — the  Colonel's  own  secretary.  What's 
wrong  with  the  town,  Hugh?  Can't  it  be  grate- 
ful to  the  Colonel,  now  when  he  really  deserves 
it?" 

"Don't  worry  about  what  Everard  deserves. 
He's  not  likely  to  get  it,  Millie." 

Again  the  Judge  was  closing  the  subject,  and 
this  time  his  wife  had  no  more  to  say.  She  gave 
his  threadbare,  scrupulously  pressed  coat  a  final 
pat  and  jerk  of  adjustment,  and  stood  off  and 
looked  at  him. 

"You'll  do,"  she  said,  "now  go  along.  The 
music's  stopping.  It  won't  look  well  if  you're 
late." 

She  turned  off  the  flickering  gas  jet  above  the 
marble-topped  bureau  abruptly,  but  not  before 
the  Judge  had  caught  the  gleam  of  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"Why  girl,"  he  said,  and  came  close  to  her  and 


The  Wishing  Moon  303 

slipped  an  arm  round  her  plump,  comfortable 
waist.  "  You're  really  troubled." 

"Yes." 

"And  vexed  with  me  for  not  helping  you." 

"Yes." 

He  had  drawn  her  toward  a  front  window  of  the 
big,  square  room.  The  Judge  and  his  wife  stood 
by  it  quietly,  looking  down  through  a  triangle 
of  white,  starched  curtains  at  the  glimmering, 
sparsely  lit  length  of  street  below,  and  straighten- 
ing out  their  difficulties  in  darkness  and  silence, 
as  all  true  lovers  should,  even  lovers  at  fifty,  as 
these  two  were  fortunate  enough  to  be. 

"Millie,  I  don't  want  to  tease  you,"  the  Judge 
said.  "I'll  tell  you  anything  you  want  to  know." 

"I've  been  so  worried,"  she  wept  comfortably 
against  his  shoulder.  "I'm  so  afraid." 

"Why?" 

"I  feel  as  if  something — anything  might  happen. 
I — oh,  you'll  only  laugh.  I  can't  just  tell  you, 
Hugh." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  Judge. 

He  hesitated  and  then  went  on  slowly,  speaking 
more  to  himself  than  to  her. 

"Women  hate  change.  That  makes  them  dread 
it,  even  when  it's  not  coming.  You're  dreading 
it,  but  it's  not  coming  now,  dear.  There's  feeling 
against  Everard.  You're  right,  but  you  exagger- 


304  The  Wishing  Moon 

ate  it.  It's  instinctive  and  unformulated.  It 
hasn't  gone  far  and  won't  go  any  farther.  He 
won't  let  it.  The  rally  and  the  library  and  this 
new  democracy  stuff,  stag  dinners  to  Ward's 
crowd  and  all,  are  part  of  a  campaign  to  stop  it. 
The  campaign  will  succeed.  Everard's  own  crowd 
won't  quarrel  with  him.  They  can't  afford  to. 
Everard  has  pulled  through  worse  times  than  this. 
I've  helped  him  myself,  and  I  shall  help  him  again. 
"There'll  be  no  change,  Millie.  Things  will  go 
on  just  the  way  they  are.  I've  lived  the  best 
years  of  my  life  believing  that  it  was  best  they 
should,  and  if  I'm  wrong,  I'm  too  old  to  change  my 
mind.  I've  said  somebody  had  to  own  the  town, 
and  it  might  as  well  be  Everard.  I've  said  the 
Burrs  and  Kents  and  Randalls,  and  old  Joe 
Grant's  young  wife  with  their  parties  and  drinks 
and  silly  little  love  affairs,  were  playing  too  hard, 
but  doing  no  real  harm,  planting  their  cheap,  fake 
smart  set  here  in  Green  River  where  it  don't  be- 
long. Now  poor  Theodore  Burr's  dead.  That 
don't  look  like  play.  Harry  Randall's  so  deep  in 
debt  to  the  bank  for  what  Everard's  let  him  bor- 
row that  he  has  to  stay  on  there  at  three  thousand 
a  year,  though  he's  been  offered  twice  that  in 
Wells.  Everard  won't  let  him  go.  And  the  best 
I  can  say  about  myself  in  the  years  I've  worked 
for  Everard  is  that  I've  kept  my  hands  clean,  if 


The  Wishing  Moon  305 

I  have  had  to  keep  my  eyes  shut,  but  I  can  say 
that  to  you,  Millie." 

"It  does  look  like  old  times  down  there,"  he  went 
on  softly,  after  a  minute.  "The  street  and  the 
lights  are  the  same.  And  it  sounds  like  old  times. 
It  was  from  a  rally  in  the  hall  that  I  first  went 
home  with  you,  Millie.  Remember?  I  was  just  a 
boy  then,  but  I  wish  I  was  hah*  the  man  I  was 
then,  to-night."  He  heard  a  murmur  of  protest, 
and  laughed.  "But  I  do,  Millie.  I — wouldn't 
be  helping  Everard." 

"Oh,  Hugh!" 

"Don't  worry.  Everard  will  pull  through  all 
right.  Look  at  the  Randalls  over  there,  starting 
for  the  hall.  Leave  your  windows  open,  Millie, 
and  you'll  soon  hear  them  all  cheering  for  Ever- 
ard. The  moon  won't  rise  till  late,  but  it  will  be 
full  to-night.  Listen,  the  band's  going  into  the 
hall  now." 

The  Judge  rested  his  cheek  for  a  moment  against 
his  wife's  soft,  smooth  hair,  the  decorous,  satisfy- 
ing caress  of  a  decorous  generation,  then  he  raised 
his  head  with  a  long,  tired  sigh. 

"I  wish  I  was  young,"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  was 
young  to-night." 

"I  wish  I  was  young,"  the  Judge  had  said, 
with  a  thrill  and  hunger  that  was  the  soul  of  youth 


306  The  Wishing  Moon 

itself  in  his  voice.  At  the  moment  when  he  said 
it,  a  boy  who  had  the  privilege  that  the  Judge 
coveted,  and  was  not  enjoying  it  just  then,  was 
leaning  against  the  court-house  railing,  and  watch- 
ing Green  River  crowd  into  Odd  Fellows'  Hall. 

Another  boy  had  pushed  his  way  across  the 
square  to  his  side,  and  was  not  heartily  welcomed 
there,  but  was  calmly  unconscious  of  it. 

"Some  night,  Donovan,"  he  remarked. 

"Some  night,  Willard,"  Neil  agreed  gravely. 

"Going  in?     Good  for  three  hours  of  hot  air?" 

"I'm  not  going.     No." 

"  Good  boy.  Say —  "  Mr.  Willard  Nash  lowered 
his  voice  as  he  made  this  daring  suggestion  — 
"we'll  go  around  to  Halloran's,  and  get  into  a 
little  game." 

His  invitation  was  not  accepted. 

"Jerry  Dugan's  not  dead  yet,"  observed  Wil- 
lard presently. 

Strains  of  a  deservedly  popular  waltz  tune, 
heard  from  inside  the  hall,  gave  faint  but  unmis- 
takable proof  of  this.  Willard  kept  time  with  his 
feet  as  he  listened,  paying  the  tune  the  tribute  of 
silence,  a  rare  one  from  him.  Standing  so,  the 
two  were  sharply  contrasted  figures,  though  the 
flickering  lamps  in  the  square  threw  only  faint 
light  here,  and  showed  them  darkly  outlined 
against  the  railing,  as  they  leaned  there  side  by 


The  Wishing  Moan  307 

side.  Pose,  carriage,  every  movement  and  turn 
of  the  head  were  different,  as  different  as  a  bulky 
and  overgrown  child  is  from  a  boy  turning  into  a 
man. 

"Some  night,"  Willard  repeated,  unanswered, 
but  unchilled  by  it,  "  and  some  crowd." 

The  hall  had  been  filling  fast.  Though  the 
waltz  still  swung  its  faint  challenge  into  the  night, 
so  much  of  Green  River  had  responded  to  it  al- 
ready that  now  it  was  arriving  only  by  twos  and 
threes.  But  the  groups  still  followed  each  other 
fast  under  the  big  globe  of  light  at  the  entrance 
door,  gayly  shaded  with  red  for  the  occasion,  and 
up  the  bare,  clattering  stairs  to  the  floor  above, 
and  the  hall. 

Willard  was  right,  more  right  than  he  knew. 
There  was  a  crowd  up  there,  a  crowd  as  Willard 
did  not  understand  the  word;  a  crowd  with  a  tone 
and  temper  of  its  own  and  a  personality  of  its  own. 
It  was  subject  to  laws  of  its  own  and  could  think 
and  feel  for  itself,  and  its  thoughts  and  feelings 
were  made  up  of  the  brain  stuff  of  every  person 
in  it,  but  different  from  them  all.  It  was  a  newly 
created  thing,  a  new  factor  in  the  world,  and  like 
all  crowds  it  was  born  for  one  evening,  to  live  for 
that  evening  only,  and  do  its  work  and  die. 

Upstairs  behind  closed  doors,  such  a  crowd  was 
forming;  getting  ready  to  think  its  own  thoughts 


308  The  Wishing  Moon 

_x 

and  act  and  feel,  and  so  many  houses,  little  and 
big,  had  emptied  themselves  to  contribute  to  it, 
so  many  family  discussions  like  the  Saxons'  had 
gone  on  as  a  prelude  to  it,  that  you  might  fairly 
say  the  crowd  up  there  was  Green  River. 

Willard,  watching  the  late  arrivals  and  com- 
menting upon  them  to  Neil,  still  an  uncommunica- 
tive audience,  was  vaguely  stirred. 

"This  gets  me,"  he  conceded.  "There's  some- 
thing about  old  Dugan's  music  that  always  gets 
me.  For  two  cents,  I'd  go  in.  I  sat  through  a 
patent  medicine  show  there  last  week,  because  I 
didn't  have  the  sense  to  stay  away.  It  always 
gets  me  when  there  is  anything  doing  in  the  hall. 
And — "  he  paused,  heavily  testing  his  powers  of 
self-analysis,  "it  gets  me,"  he  brought  out  at 
length,  "more  to-night  than  it  ever  did  before. 
It — gets  me." 

"Look,  there's  Joe  Grant,"  Willard  went  on. 
"This  is  his  night,  all  right.  Look  at  the  bulge 
to  that  manuscript  case,  and  the  shine  to  his  hair. 
He  mixes  varnish  with  his  hair  dye,  all  right.  I 
said,  look  at  him." 

"I'm  looking." 

"Well,  you  don't  do  much  else.  What's  eating 
you  to-night?  Say,  will  you  go  in  if  I  will?" 

An  inarticulate  murmur  answered  him. 

"What's  that?" 


The  Wishing  Moan  309 

"No." 

"  All  right.  Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that? 
Look  there." 

"I'm  looking." 

The  latest  comers  were  crowding  hurriedly  into 
the  entrance  hall  by  this  time,  and  with  them,  a 
slender,  heavily  veiled  figure  had  slipped  quickly 
through  the  door  and  out  of  sight. 

"  Was  that  Lil?  "  Willard  said.     "  Lil  Burr?  " 

"Yes." 

"She  wouldn't  come  here;  I  don't  believe  it." 

"I  know  it." 

"How?" 

"She  told  me." 

"What  was  she  doing,  talking  to  you?  Why, 
she  won't  talk  to  anybody.  She " 

"You'll  be  late  at  Hallorans'." 

"Aren't  you  coming?" 

"No." 

"But  you  said  you  would.  I  don't  want  to  go 
if  you  don't.  I  don't  half  like  to  leave  you  here, 
you  act  so  queer  to-night.  What  makes  you  act 
so?  What's  eating — 

"Nothing." 

Willard  detached  himself  from  the  railings  and 
regarded  his  friend,  suddenly  breathless  with  sur- 
prise, and  deeply  grieved.  Nothing.  The  word, 
harmless  in  itself,  had  been  spoken  so  that  it  hit 


310  The  Wishing  Moon 

him  like  an  actual  blow,  straight  from  the  shoulder. 
Neil,  shifting  so  that  the  light  showed  his  face,  was 
returning  his  look  with  the  sudden,  unreasoning 
anger  that  we  feel  toward  little  sounds  that  beat 
their  slow  way  into  our  consciousness  at  night, 
to  irritate  us  unendurably  at  last. 

"Go,"  he  urged,  "go  along  to  Halloran's.  Go 
anywhere." 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?"  began 
Willard,  offended,  and  then  forgave  him.  There 
was  a  look  in  Neil's  pale  face  that  commanded 
forgiveness.  It  was  pale  and  strained  with  a 
trouble  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  Willard,  and 
Willard  was  respectful  and  inarticulate  before 
it. 

"That's  all  right,"  Willard  muttered,  "that  will 
be  all  right.  I'll  go." 

Neil  took  no  notice  of  this  promise.  Up  in  the 
hall  the  waltz  had  swelled  to  a  high,  light-hearted 
climax,  heady  and  strained,  like  the  sudden  excite- 
ments that  sweep  a  crowd.  It  came  clear  through 
the  open  windows,  making  one  last  appeal  to  the 
boy  below  to  come  up  and  be  part  of  what  was 
there.  And  just  then  a  small  closed  car  swept 
down  through  the  empty  square  and  stopped. 
Two  men  stepped  out,  and  paused  in  the  doorway 
under  the  red-shaded  light. 

One  was  the  Colonel's  secretary,  waiting  on  the 


The  Wishing  Moon  311 

step  beyond  range  of  the  light,  a  tall,  shadowy 
figure,  and  the  other,  who  stood  with  the  light  on 
his  face,  was  Colonel  Everard. 

He  was  still  pale  from  his  week  of  illness,  but  his 
keen  eyes  and  clear-cut  profile  were  more  effective 
for  that.  He  stood  listening  to  the  sounds  from 
upstairs,  and  he  smiled  as  he  listened.  He  turned 
at  last  and  looked  out  across  the  square  as  if  he 
could  feel  Neil's  eyes  upon  him  and  were  returning 
their  look,  and  then  turned  away  and  disappeared 
up  the  stairs. 

"Neil,"  Willard  was  announcing  uneasily,  "I 
think  a  lot  of  you.  I'd  do  a  lot  for  you.  If  you're 
in  wrong,  any  way,  if " 

Willard  broke  off,  rebuffed.  Neil  did  not  even 
look  at  him.  He  stood  staring  at  the  lighted 
doorway  where  the  Colonel  had  stood  and  smiled, 
as  if  he  could  still  see  him  there.  He  was  a  crea- 
ture beyond  Willard's  world,  as  he  looked,  but  un- 
accountably fascinating  to  Willard.  Willard  re- 
garded him  in  awed  silence. 

Now  Dugan's  music  had  stopped.  Some  one 
above  shut  a  window  with  a  clatter  that  echoed 
disproportionately  loud.  Then  there  was  silence 
up  there,  tense  silence,  and  the  call  of  the  silence 
was  harder  to  resist  than  the  music.  The  boy  by 
the  court-house  railing  could  not  resist  it.  He 
pushed  away  Willard's  detaining  hand,  and  with- 


312  The  Wishing  Moon 

out  a  word  to  him  or  another  glance  at  him,  was 
across  the  square  and  through  the  red-lighted  door, 
and  running  up  the  stairs. 

"What  do  you  know  about  that?"  Willard  de- 
manded, in  vain.  "What  do  you  know " 

Willard,  certainly,  knew  nothing,  and  gave  up 
the  attempt  to  understand,  with  a  sigh. 

A  little  later  the  vantage  point  of  the  court- 
house fence  was  unoccupied.  Of  the  two  boys 
who  had  occupied  it,  one  was  making  a  belated  and 
rather  disconsolate  way  toward  Halloran's — the 
one  who  would  be  boasting  to-morrow  that  he  had 
spent  the  last  fifteen  minutes  with  Neil  Donovan. 
The  other  boy  stood  listening  outside  the  closed 
doors  of  the  hall. 

It  was  half  an  hour  later  and  it  had  been  an 
important  half -hour  in  Odd  Fellows'  Hall,  that 
uneventful  but  vital  time  when  the  newly  made 
creature  that  is  the  crowd  is  passive,  gathering  its 
forces  slowly,  getting  ready  to  fling  the  weight  of 
them  into  one  side  of  a  balance  irrevocably,  if  it  has 
decisions  to  make;  the  most  important  half-hour 
of  the  evening  if  you  were  interested  in  the  psychol- 
ogy of  crowds.  The  Honourable  Joe  Grant  was 
not.  He  would  have  said  that  the  first  speech 
dragged  and  the  half-hour  had  been  dull.  Dull  or 
significant,  that  half-hour  was  over,  and  Green 


The  Wishing  Moon  313 

River  was  waking  up.  In  the  listening  hush  of  the 
hall  the  big  moments  of  the  evening,  whatever 
they  were  to  be,  were  creeping  nearer  and  nearer. 
Now  they  were  almost  here. 

The  Honourable  Joe  had  just  introduced  Luther 
Ward  and  heavily  resumed  his  seat.  He  sat 
portly  and  erect  and  entirely  happy  behind  the 
thin-legged,  inadequate  looking  table  that  held  a 
water  pitcher,  his  important  looking  papers,  and 
his  watch.  The  ornately  chased  gold  watch  that 
had  measured  so  many  epoch-making  hours  for 
Green  River  was  in  public  life  again,  like  the 
Honourable  Joe.  He  fingered  it  affectionately, 
wiped  his  forehead  delicately  from  time  to  time 
with  a  purple  silk  handkerchief,  followed  Mr. 
Ward's  remarks  with  unwavering  brown  eyes,  and 
smiled  his  benevolent,  public-spirited  smile.  This 
was  his  night  indeed. 

Behind  the  Honourable  Joe,  on  the  stage  in  a  semi- 
circular row  of  chairs  were  the  speakers  of  the  even- 
ing, and  before  him  was  Green  River. 

The  badly  proportioned  little  hall  was  not  at  its 
best  to-night.  It  was  too  brightly  lit  and  the 
footlights  threw  an  uncompromising  glare  upon  the 
tiny  stage.  Red,  white,  and  blue  cheesecloth  in 
crude,  sharp  colouring  draped  windows  and  stage, 
making  gay  little  splashes  of  colour  that  em- 
phasized the  dinginess  of  the  room.  Only  the 


314  The  Wishing  Moon 

Grand  Army  flag,  borrowed  and  draped  elaborately 
above  the  stage,  showed  faded  and  thin  against 
the  brightness  of  the  cheesecloth,  but  kept  its 
dignity  and  kept  up  its  claim  to  homage  still. 
And  the  ugliness  of  the  room  was  a  thing  to  be 
discounted  and  forgotten,  like  some  beautiful,  full- 
blooded  woman's  tawdry,  and  ill-chosen  clothes, 
because  this  room  held  Green  River. 

Green  River,  filling  the  little  room  to  over- 
flowing, standing  in  the  rear  of  the  room,  crowding 
every  available  inch  of  space  on  benches,  window 
sills,  and  an  emergency  supply  of  camp  chairs, 
impressive  as  that  much  sheer  bulk  of  humanity, 
crowded  between  four  walls,  becomes  impressive, 
and  impressive  in  its  own  right,  too;  Green  River 
represented  as  it  was,  with  all  the  warring,  un- 
reconciled elements  that  made  the  town. 

For  they  were  all  here,  Paddy  Lane,  and  the 
Everard  circle,  and  the  intermediate  stages  of 
society,  the  Gaynors  and  other  prosperous  farmers 
and  unprosperous  farmers  and  their  wives,  from 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  citizens  a  cut  above 
them  both,  like  the  Wards,  were  all  represented 
here.  Mrs.  Kent,  hatless  and  evening  coated, 
was  elbowed  by  a  lady  from  Paddy  Lane,  hatless 
because  she  had  no  presentable  hat,  and  wearing 
a  ragged  shawl.  These  two  were  side  by  side, 
and  they  had  the  same  look  on  their  faces.  There 


The  Wishing  Moon  315 

was  something  of  it  now  on  every  face  in  the  room. 
It  was  a  look  of  listening  and  waiting. 

It  was  on  every  face,  and  it  grew  more  intense 
every  minute  that  Luther  Ward's  speech  droned  on, 
though  it  was  only  a  dry,  illogical  rehash  of  political 
issues  that  could  not  have  called  that  look  into  any 
face.  It  was  as  if  the  audience  listened  eagerly 
through  it  because  every  word  of  it  was  bringing 
them  nearer  to  something  that  was  to  follow. 
What  was  it?  What  did  Green  River  want? 
What  was  it  waiting  for?  Green  River  itself 
did  not  know,  but  it  was  very  near. 

Perhaps  it  was  coming  now.  This  might  well 
be  the  climax  of  the  evening.  No  more  important 
event  was  scheduled.  Luther  Ward,  looking  dis- 
contented with  his  performance,  but  relieved  to 
complete  it,  had  sunk  into  his  chair  to  a  scattered 
echoing  of  applause,  and  the  next  speaker  was 
Colonel  Everard. 

The  Honourable  Joe  was  rising  to  introduce  him. 
The  little  introductory  speech  was  a  masterpiece, 
for,  though  the  Colonel  had  edited  every  word  of 
it,  it  was  still  hi  the  Honourable  Joe's  best  style, 
flowery  and  sprinkled  with  quotations. 

"I  will  not  say  more,"  it  concluded  magnifi- 
cently, "of  one  whose  life  and  work  among  you 
can  best  speak  for  itself,  and  who  will  speak  for 
himself  now,  in  his  own  person.  I  present  to 


316  The  Wishing  Moon 

you  the  Republican  candidate  for  mayor,  Colonel 
Everard." 

And  now  the  Honourable  Joe  had  bowed  and 
smiled  himself  into  his  seat,  and  the  great  man  was 
on  his  feet,  and  coming  forward  to  the  centre  of  the 
stage.  The  first  real  applause  of  the  evening 
greeted  him,  not  very  hearty  or  sustained,  but 
prompt  at  least.  He  looked  like  a  very  great  man 
indeed,  as  he  stood  acknowledging  it,  his  most 
effective  self,  a  strong  man,  though  so  lightly 
built,  erect  and  pliant  of  carriage,  a  man  with  in- 
finite reserves  of  power  and  dignity.  He  was 
smiling,  and  his  smile  was  the  same  that  the  boy 
by  the  court-house  fence  had  seen,  a  tantalizing 
smile  of  assurance  and  charm  and  power,  as  if  he 
were  master  of  himself  and  the  town. 

This  was  his  moment,  planned  for  and  led  up  to 
for  weeks,  but  Colonel  Everard  was  slow  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  He  stood  still,  with  his  eyes  to- 
ward the  rear  of  the  hall.  As  he  stood  so,  heads 
here  and  there  turned  and  looked  where  he  was 
looking.  Presently  all  Green  River  saw  what  the 
Colonel  saw.  A  boy  was  pushing  his  way  toward 
the  front  of  the  hall — a  boy  who  had  slipped  quietly 
inside  the  doors  unnoticed  fifteen  minutes  before, 
and  came  forward  now  just  as  quietly,  but  held 
their  eyes  as  he  came.  Now  he  had  reached  the 
stage,  and  he  broke  through  the  barrier  of  golden- 


The  Wishing  Moon  317 

rod  that  fenced  the  short  flight  of  steps,  crushing 
the  flowers  under  his  feet,  and  now  he  was  on  the 
stage  confronting  Colonel  Everard.  It  was  Neil 
Donovan. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said  to  the  great  man.  "  They're 
not  going  to  listen  to  you.  They're  going  to  listen 
to  me." 

After  that  he  did  not  wait  to  see  if  the  great 
man  took  his  amazing  advice.  He  came  forward 
alone,  and  spoke  to  Green  River.  He  was  not  an 
imposing  figure  as  he  stood  there,  only  a  lean,  eager 
boy,  with  dark,  flashing  eyes,  and  a  face  that  was 
very  pale  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights.  He  hardly 
raised  his  tense,  low-pitched  voice  as  he  spoke, 
but  Green  River  heard. 

"You're  going  to  listen  to  me." 

And  it  was  true.  Green  River  was  going  to  lis- 
ten. In  the  middle  of  the  hall,  where  the  chief 
delegation  from  Paddy  Lane  was  massed,  a  ripple 
of  excitement  promised  the  boy  support.  It  was 
seconded  by  a  muttering  and  shuffling  of  feet  on 
the  rear  benches,  devoted  to  the  youth  of  the  town. 
From  here  and  there  in  the  hall  there  were  mur- 
murs of  protest,  too,  dying  out  one  by  one,  and 
ceasing  automatically,  like  the  whispered  consulta- 
tion that  went  on  behind  him  on  the  stage. 

But  the  boy  did  not  wait  for  support  or  regard 
interruptions.  He  did  not  need  to.  The  audience 


318  The  Wishing  Moon 

was  his  in  spite  of  them,  and  he  knew  it  and  they 
knew  it.  Whatever  he  had  to  say,  important  or 
not,  it  was  what  they  had  been  waiting  for;  that 
was  what  the  evening  had  been  leading  to,  and  it 
was  here  at  last.  Pale  and  intent,  the  boy  looked 
across  the  footlights  at  Green  River.  The  au- 
dience was  his,  but  he  had  no  pride  in  the  triumph. 
He  began  haltingly  to  speak. 

"It  will  do  no  good  to  you  or  me,  but  you're 
going  to  listen.  I've  got  a  word  to  say  about 
Everard. 

"He's  sucked  your  town  dry  for  years  and  you 
know  it.  He's  had  the  pick  of  your  men  and  used 
their  brains  and  their  youth,  and  he's  had  the  pick 
of  your  women.  If  there  are  any  of  you  here  that 
he's  got  no  hold  on,  it's  because  you're  worth 
nothing  to  h  m.  He's  got  the  town.  Now  he's 
driven  one  of  your  boys  to  his  death. 

"'I  can't  beat  him/  That's  what  Theodore 
Burr  said  to  me  the  night  he  died.  'They  won't 
blame  him  for  this.  I  want  to  die  because  I  don't 
want  to  live  in  the  world  with  him,  but  I'll  do  no 
harm  to  him  by  dying,  only  to  Lily  and  me.  They 
won't  blame  him.  You  can't  beat  Everard.' 

"  Well,  you  don't  blame  Everard.  He's  got  you 
where  you  don't  blame  him,  whatever  he  does. 
You  shut  your  eyes  to  it.  He's  got  you.  You 
know  all  this  and  you  shut  your  eyes.  Now  I'll 


The  Wishing  Moon  319 

tell  you  some  things  you  don't  know.  Everard's 
been  trying  for  weeks  to  bribe  me  to  keep  my 
mouth  shut,  like  he  bribed  Charlie  for  years.  He 
might  have  saved  his  breath  and  his  money.  I 
can't  hurt  him,  whether  I  keep  my  mouth  shut  or 
not.  You  won't  blame  him.  You'll  let  him  get 
away  with  this,  too.  But  you're  going  to  know." 

The  boy  came  closer  still  to  the  footlights  and 
leaned  across  them,  pausing  and  deliberately  choos- 
ing his  words.  The  pause,  and  the  look  in  his  dark, 
intent  eyes  as  he  stood ,  there  challenged  Green 
River  and  dared  it  to  interrupt  him.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  interrupt,  too  late  to  stop  him  now. 
And  behind  him  in  the  place  of  honour  in  the  centre 
of  the  row  of  chairs  on  the  stage,  one  man  at  least 
was  powerless  to  stop  him:  Colonel  Everard,  who 
listened  with  a  set  smile  on  his  lips,  and  a  set  stare 
in  his  eyes. 

"  He's  the  man  that  broke  Maggie  Brady's  life  to 
pieces,"  Neil's  low  voice  went  on.  "Everard's  the 
man.  He  got  her  away  from  town.  He  filled 
her  head  with  him  and  set  her  wild  and  she  had  to 
go.  When  he  was  tired  of  her,  he  left  her  in  a 
place  he  thought  she'd  be  too  proud  to  come  back 
from.  She  was  proud,  but  he's  broken  her  pride, 
and  she  crawled  back  to  us.  The  prettiest  girl 
in  the  town,  she  was,  and  you  all  knew  that,  and 
my  sister  and  more  to  me "  he  broke  off 


320  The  Wishing  Moon 

abruptly,  and  laughed  a  dry  little  laugh  that 
echoed  strangely  in  the  silent  room.  His  voice 
sounded  dry  and  hard  as  he  went  on. 

"He  broke  Maggie's  life,  but  what's  that  to  you, 
that  give  him  a  chance  at  your  women,  knowing 
well  what  he  is,  and  leave  them  to  take  care  of 
themselves  with  him,  your  own  women  that  are 
yours  to  take  care  of,  daughters  and  wives?  It's 
nothing  to  you,  but  you're  going  to  know  it,  and 
you're  going  to  know  this.  I  had  it  straight  from 
Theodore  Burr  the  night  he  died. 

"Everard's  going  to  sell  you  out  at  the  next 
election,  the  whole  of  you — his  own  crowd,  too. 
He's  been  planning  it  for  months.  He's  worked 
prohibition  for  all  it's  worth  to  him;  worked  for  it 
till  the  state  went  dry,  and  then  he's  made  money 
for  you  that  are  in  it  with  him,  and  more  for  him- 
self, protecting  places  like  Halloran's  that  sell 
liquor  on  the  quiet,  and  the  smuggling  of  liquor  into 
the  state.  Well,  he's  made  money  enough  that 
way,  and  it's  getting  risky,  and  now  he  sees  a  way 
to  make  more  and  let  nobody  in  on  it.  He's  going 
to  sell  out  to  the  liquor  interests  and  work  against 
prohibition,  and  the  big  card  he'll  use  will  be  ex- 
posing Halloran's  and  the  secret  traffic  in  liquor, 
and  all  the  crowd  that's  been  buying  protection 
from  him.  There's  a  big  campaign  started  al- 
ready, and  big  money  being  spent.  There'll  be  big 


The  Wishing  Moon  321 

money  in  it  for  him.  There'll  be  arrests  made  here 
and  a  public  scandal.  He's  going  to  sell  the  town. 

"Maybe  that  interests  you  some.  Maybe  it 
gets  you.  It  won't  for  long.  He'll  crawl  out 
of  it  and  lie  out  of  it  and  talk  you  and  buy  you 
back  to  him.  Well,  I  know  one  thing  more,  and 
he  can't  lie  or  crawl  out  of  it.  My  father  could 
have  put  him  behind  bars  any  time  in  twenty 
years.  He's  a  common  thief. 

"It  was  when  he  was  seventeen,  and  studying 
law  first,  back  in  a  town  up  state  that's  not  on  the 
map  or  likely  to  get  there,  and  he  was  called  by  a 
name  there  that  wasn't  Everard.  He  was  seven- 
teen, but  he  was  the  same  then  as  now;  he  had  the 
same  will  to  get  on  and  the  power  to,  no  matter 
who  he  trampled  on  to  get  there,  and  the  same 
charm  that  got  men  and  women  both,  though  they 
didn't  trust  him — got  them  even  when  he  was 
trampling  on  them  and  they  knew  it.  It  got 
him  into  trouble  there  with  two  girls  at  once. 
One  was  the  girl  that  gave  him  his  start,  the  chance 
to  go  into  her  uncle's  office.  He  was  the  biggest 
man  hi  the  town.  Older  than  Everard,  this  girl 
was,  and  teaching  in  the  school  he  went  to,  when 
she  fell  in  love  with  him  and  brought  him  home  to 
her  town  and  gave  him  his  chance.  He  was  tired 
of  her,  and  she  was  where  it  was  bound  to  come 
out  soon  how  things  were  with  them,  and  so  was 


322  The  Wishing  Moon 

the  other  girl,  a  girl  that  he  wasn't  tired  of,  the 
daughter  of  the  woman  where  he  boarded.  He 
tried  to  get  her  to  go  away  with  him.  She  wouldn't 
go  and  she  wouldn't  forgive  him,  but  the  town  was 
getting  too  hot  for  him,  and  he  had  to  go 

"He  had  to  go  quick  and  make  a  clean  getaway 
and  he  wanted  a  real  start  this  time.  He  had  to 
have  money.  That  was  a  dead  little  town.  There 
was  only  one  place  he  could  get  money  enough,  in 
the  little  hotel  there.  It  was  the  only  bank  they 
had.  The  keeper  of  it  used  to  cash  checks  and 
make  loans.  Everard  was  lucky,  the  same  then 
as  now.  There  was  almost  five  thousand  dollars 
in  the  safe  hi  the  hotel  office  the  night  he  broke 
into  it,  and  that  was  enough  for  him.  He  had  a 
fight  with  the  hotel  clerk,  but  he  got  away  with 
the  money,  and  he  got  away  from  the  town. 

"The  clerk  was  his  best  friend  in  town — never 
trusted  him,  but  fell  for  him  the  same  as  the  girls 
and  lent  him  money  and  listened  to  his  troubles — 
and  fell  for  him  again  when  he  ran  across  him  again, 
years  later,  here  in  Green  River.  Everard  told 
him  he'd  sent  the  money  back,  and  he  kept  the 
secret.  He  never  took  hush  money  for  it  like 
Charlie.  He  said  Everard  ought  to  have  his 
chance,  and  was  straight  now.  But  he  fell  for 
Everard  again,  that's  what  happened.  Everard 
had  him,  the  same  as  the  rest  of  you. 


The  Wishing  Moon  323 

"  The  clerk  was  my  father.'* 

The  boy's  voice  broke  off.  There  was  dead 
silence  in  the  hall.  Green  River  had  been  listen- 
ing almost  in  silence,  and  did  not  break  it  now. 
Presently  the  boy  sighed,  shrugged  his  thin  shoul- 
ders as  if  they  were  throwing  off  an  actual  weight, 
and  spoke  again,  this  time  in  a  lifeless  voice,  with 
all  the  colour  and  drama  wiped  out  of  it,  a  voice 
that  was  very  tired. 

"That's  all,"  he  said.  "That's  back  of  him, 
with  his  fine  airs  and  his  far-reaching  schemes  and 
his  big  name  in  the  state.  You've  stood  for  a 
crook.  Will  you  stand  for  a  common  criminal,  a 
common  thief?  Now  you  know  and  it's  up  to 
you.  That's  all." 

An  hour  later  a  boy  was  hurrying  through  the 
dark  along  the  road  to  the  Falls. 

He  was  almost  home.  Green  River  lay  far 
behind  with  its  scattered,  sparsely  strewn  lights. 
The  flat  fields  around  him  and  the  unshaded  road 
before  him,  so  bleak  by  day,  were  beautiful  to- 
night, far  reaching  and  mysterious.  Above  them, 
flat  looking  and  unreal,  remote  hi  a  coldly  clouded 
sky,  hung  the  yellow  September  moon. 

"I've  done  for  myself,"  the  boy  was  saying  half 
out  loud,  as  if  the  faraway  moon  could  hear.  "  I've 
lost  everything  now.  I've  done  for  myself." 


324  The  Wishing  Moon 

The  boy  was  sure  of  this,  but  could  have  told 
little  more  about  the  events  of  the  evening.  He 
remembered  listening  outside  the  hall  doors  until 
he  was  drawn  inside  in  spite  of  himself,  and  listen- 
ing there  until  something  snapped  in  his  brain,  and 
suddenly  the  long  days  of  repression,  of  vainly 
wondering  what  to  do  with  his  hard-won  knowl- 
edge, were  over,  and  he  was  pouring  it  all  out  in 
one  jumbled  burst  of  speech.  He  had  no  plan 
and  no  hope  of  doing  harm  to  his  enemy  by  speak- 
ing. He  had  to  speak. 

After  he  had  spoken  he  remembered  getting 
down  from  the  stage  and  out  of  the  hall  somehow. 
He  remembered  the  crushed  goldenrod,  slippery 
under  his  feet.  Against  a  background  of  blurred, 
unrecognizable  faces,  he  remembered  a  tall,  black- 
garbed  figure  that  rose  to  its  feet  swaying  and  then 
steadying  itself.  It  was  Lilian  Burr.  Less  clearly 
he  remembered  a  wave  of  sound  from  the  hall  that 
followed  him  as  he  hurried  away  across  the  square. 
It  was  not  like  applause.  He  did  not  know  or 
care  what  it  meant.  After  that,  he  remembered 
only  the  cool  dark  of  the  September  night  as  he 
walked  through  it  aimlessly  at  first,  and  then  turned 
toward  home. 

"I've  lost  everything,*'  he  had  said,  and  it  must 
be  true.  How  could  he  face  the  Judge  again? 
How  could  he  go  on  living  in  Green  River?  This 


The  Wishing  Moon  325 

was  what  all  his  long-cherished  dreams  had  come 
to;  a  scene  that  Charlie  might  have  made,  and 
disgrace  in  the  eyes  of  the  town.  He  had  lost 
everything. 

Yet  strangely,  as  he  said  it,  he  knew  that  it  was 
not  true.  Whatever  he  had  lost,  he  had  better 
things  left.  He  had  those  free  and  splendid  min- 
utes of  speaking  out  his  heart.  They  could  not 
be  taken  from  him.  The  freedom  and  relief  of 
them  was  with  him  still.  And  he  had  the  road 
firm  under  his  feet,  and  the  clean  air  blowing  the 
fever  out  of  his  brain,  and  the  strength  of  his  own 
young  body,  clean  strength,  good  to  feel  as  he 
walked  through  the  night.  And  along  the  dark 
road  before  him,  familiar  as  it  was,  and  worn  so 
many  times  by  discouraged  feet,  the  white  track 
of  moonlight  beckoned  him,  clean  and  new.  It 
was  a  way  that  might  lead  anywhere — to  fairy- 
land, to  success,  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

Now  the  boy  made  the  turn  in  the  road  that 
brought  him  within  sight  of  home.  Faint  lights 
twinkling  from  it,  intimate  and  warm,  invited 
him  as  never  before.  Was  his  mother  waiting 
up  for  him?  Home  itself,  lighted  and  intimate 
and  safe,  was  enough  to  find  waiting.  His  heart 
gave  a  strange  little  leap  that  hurt,  but  was  keen 
pleasure,  too.  Almost  running,  he  covered  the  last 
bit  of  road,  crossed  the  grassy  front  yard  and  then 


326  The  Wishing  Moon 

climbed  the  creaking  front  steps,  and  stood  for  a 
minute  that  was  unendurably  long,  fumbling  with 
the  door. 

The  door  was  unlocked  and  gave  suddenly, 
opening  wide,  and  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
the  kitchen.  The  lights  he  had  seen  were  in  the 
sitting-room  beyond.  In  this  room  there  was  only 
moonlight.  It  came  through  the  window  that 
looked  out  on  the  marshy  field,  the  fairies'  field. 
Surely  there  must  be  fairies  there  to-night,  out  in 
the  empty  green  spaces,  flooded  with  moonlight. 
But  the  fames  were  not  all  in  the  field,  there  was 
one  in  the  room.  Neil  could  see  it. 

The  old  rocking  chair  stood  in  the  moonlit 
window.  It  was  holding  two,  his  mother,  and 
some  one  else — the  fairy,  golden  haired  and  white 
robed  and  slender,  and  close  in  his  mother's  arms. 
As  he  stood  and  wondered  and  looked,  a  board 
creaked  under  his  feet.  It  was  the  faintest  of 
sounds,  but  a  fairy's  ears  are  keen,  and  the  fairy 
heard,  and  stirred,  and  turned  in  his  mother's 
arms. 

Now  Neil  could  see  her  face.  It  was  flushed 
and  human  and  warm,  and  in  her  eyes,  opening 
grave  and  deep,  was  a  look  that  was  the  shyest 
but  surest  of  welcomes.  The  welcome  was  all  for 
Neil,  and  the  fairy  was  Judith. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

A  BOY  and  a  girl  sat  on  the  doorsteps  of  the 
Randall  house. 
It  was  almost  a  year  since  the  night  of 
the  rally.  It  was  an  evening  in  late  May— late, 
but  it  was  May,  and  the  fairies'  month  still. 
There  was  a  pleasant,  shivery  chill  in  the  air.  A 
far  sprinkling  of  stars  made  the  dark  of  the  still, 
windless  night  look  darker  and  warmer  and  safer 
to  whisper  in.  The  big  horse-chestnut  tree  at  the 
corner  of  the  syringa  hedge  was  only  a  darker  blot 
against  the  surrounding  dark,  and  the  slope  of 
faintly  lit  street  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge 
looked  far  away,  with  the  dark  sweep  of  lawn  be- 
tween. It  was  a  night  for  the  fairies,  or  for  the 
girl  and  boy,  and  that  was  quite  as  it  should  be, 
for  it  was  their  first  together  for  months. 

Judith  and  Neil  sat  discreetly  erect  on  the  steps, 
undoing  what  those  months  apart  had  done  with 
little  bursts  of  shy  speech,  and  long,  shy  silences 
that  helped  them  more.  In  the  longest  and  shyest 
silence  their  hands  had  groped  for  each  other  once, 
met  as  if  they  had  never  touched  before,  and  clung 
together  for  a  minute  as  if  they  never  meant  to 

327 


328  The  Wishing  Moon 

let  go,  but  Judith  kept  firmly  to  impersonal  sub- 
jects still. 

"You  did  it  all,"  she  said.  "Things  do  happen 
so  fast  when  they  happen.  Just  think,  this  time 
last  year  he  was  like  a  king!" 

"Everard?" 

"Yes.  Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  be 
cross  when  you  called  him  that,  and  wouldn't  say 
Colonel?  How  childish  that  was!"  Judith  pat- 
tronized  her  dead  self,  as  a  young  lady  may,  with 
her  twentieth  birthday  almost  upon  her. 

"You  weren't  childish." 

"What  was  I?" 

"Just  what  you  are  now." 

"What's  that?" 

"Wonderful."  Neil  chose  his  one  adequate 
word,  from  the  tiny  vocabulary  of  youth,  small  be- 
cause few  words  are  worthy  to  voice  the  infinite 
dreams  of  it.  "  Wonderful." 

"No,  I'm  not  wonderful.  You  are.  That 
dreadful  old  man,  and  every  one  knew  he  was 
dreadful  and  wouldn't  do  anything  about  it  till 
you " 

"Bawled  him  out?  That's  all  I  did,  you  know, 
really.  It  was  a  kid's  trick.  He  lost  out  because 
it  was  coming  to  him  anyway.  Poor  Theodore 
saw  to  that.  He  turned  the  town  against  Everard 
when  he  killed  himself.  It  wasn't  turning  fast, 


The  Wishing  Moon  329 

but  it  was  turning.  I  did  give  it  a  shove  and  make 
it  turn  faster,  but  I  didn't  even  have  sense  enough 
to  know  I  had  until  the  day  after  the  rally,  when 
the  Judge  sent  for  me  and  told  me.  I  didn't  dare 
go  near  him  until  he  sent  for  me,  and  I  thought  he 
had  sent  for  me  to  fire  me." 

"But  you  broke  up  the  rally.  They  were  dead 
still  hi  the  hall  until  you  left,  and  then  they  went 
crazy,  calling  for  you,  and  all  talking  at  once, 
talking  against  you,  some  of  them,  till  it  really 
wasn't  a  rally  any  more,  but  just  like  a  mob.  Oh, 
I  know.  The  Judge  tells  me,  every  time  I  go  to 
ride  with  him,  and  when  he  came  on  to  the  school 
last  winter  and  saw  me  there,  he  told  me  all  over 
again.  Father  has  never  half  told  me.  He  hates 
to  talk  about  the  rally  or  the  Colonel  either,  but 
I  don't  care,  he  and  mother  are  both  so  sweet 
to  me  lately — just  sweet. 

"So  it  was  just  like  a  mob,  and  then  poor  Mrs. 
Burr  got  up  and  tried  to  speak,  and  they  got  quiet 
and  listened,  and  she  said  "Every  word  the  boy 
says  is  true  and  more — more —  "  just  like  that, 
and  then  she  got  faint  and  had.  to  stop,  and  then 
the  Judge  took  hold.  That's  what  he  says  he  did, 
took  hold,  and  he  says  it  was  time,  because  they 
might  have  tarred  and  feathered  the  Colonel  if  he 
hadn't.  I  don't  suppose  they  would,  but  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen  the  Judge  take  hold.  I  love  him." 


330  The  Wishing  Moon 

"Don't  you  love  anybody  else?" 

Judith  ignored  this  frivolous  interruption,  as 
it  deserved. 

"And  so  your  work  was  done,  though  you  didn't 
know  it  and  ran  away.  And  the  Judge  says  you 
are  a  born  orator,  Neil.  That  you've  got  the  real 
gift,  the  thing  that  makes  an  audience  yours.  I 
don't  know  just  what  he  means,  but  I  know  you've 
got  it,  too.  You're  going  to  be  a  great  man, 
Neil." 

"I  didn't  do  anything." 

"You're  the  only  man  in  town  who  thinks  that, 
then,  or  has  since  that  night.  He — Everard — was 
done  for  the  minute  you  stepped  on  the  stage,  the 
Judge  says.  Only  they  managed  it  decently,  the 
Judge  and  the  few  that  kept  their  heads.  They 
announced  that  Colonel  Everard  was  indisposed 
and  couldn't  speak,  and  the  Judge  took  him  home. 
He  really  was  ill  next  day.  There's  something 
wrong  with  his  horrid  heart.  And  that  gave  him 
a  good  excuse  not  to  run  for  mayor,  he  gave  that 
up  himself.  And  in  a  few  days  the  Judge  and 
Luther  Ward  went  to  him  and  told  him  what  else 
he  had  to  do,  and  he  did  it.  He  had  to  resign 
from  everything,  everything  he  was  in  charge  of  or 
was  trustee  of,  or  had  anything  to  do  with,  and 
get  out  of  town.  If  he'd  do  that,  they  wouldn't 
make  any  scandal  or  bother  him  afterward,  but  let 


The  Wishing  Moon  331 

him  start  new.  And  they  gave  him  six  months 
to  do  all  that  decently  and  save  his  face.  Why 
did  he  have  to  do  it  decently?  Why  couldn't 
they  tar  and  feather  him?  I  wish  they  had.  I 
wish " 

"  Wish  something  else,  Judith.  Something  about 
us." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  us?" 

"You  and  me." 

"Isn't  it  splendid  the  Judge  is  going  to  be 
president  of  the  bank?"  said  Judith  hastily. 

"Splendid,"  said  a  future  president  of  the  Green 
River  Bank,  who  was  occupying  the  step  beside 
her. 

"And  isn't  it  nice  that  poor  Mrs.  Burr  is  going 
to  marry  Mr.  Sebastian,  even  if  she  does  have  to 
move  away  from  Green  River?  I  like  people  to 
be  happy,  don't  you?" 

"No.  No,  I  don't.  Not  other  people.  I  don't 
care  whether  they  are  happy  or  not,  and  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  them,  only  about  you  and  me." 

"If  you  don't  like  the  way  I  talk,  I'll  keep  still," 
Judith  said,  in  a  severe  but  small  voice,  but  a 
small  hand  groping  for  his  softened  the  threat, 
and  a  soft,  sudden  laugh  as  his  arm  slipped  round 
her  atoned  for  it  entirely.  Then  there  was  silence 
on  the  steps,  a  long,  whispering,  wonderful  silence. 
Long  before  Judith  spoke  again  all  the  work  of 


332  The  Wishing  Moon 

the  lonely  months  was  undone.  And  the  low 
whispers  that  the  two  exhanged  conveyed  no  fur- 
ther information  about  Colonel  Everard. 

But  there  was  no  more  to  tell.  The  master  of 
Green  River  was  master  no  longer  and  the  end  of 
all  the  intricate  planning  and  scheming  that  had 
made  and  kept  him  master  was  a  story  that 
Judith  could  tell  in  a  few  careless  sentences  and 
forget.  If  she  had  seen  and  guessed  some  things 
that  she  could  not  forget,  in  the  strange  little 
circle  that  had  found  a  place  for  her,  she  would 
never  see  them  again.  That  order  was  gone  from 
the  town  forever,  with  the  man  who  had  created 
it,  and  beside  her  on  the  steps  was  the  boy  who 
could  make  her  forget  it,  and  see  beyond  the  long, 
hard  years  between.  And,  as  she  almost  could 
guess,  in  these  magic  minutes  when  she  could 
dream  and  dream  true,  that  boy  was  the  future 
master  of  Green  River. 

Judith  sighed,  and  stirred  in  his  arms. 

"Are  you  happier  now?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"But  you're  going  to  be  great.  You  are, 
really." 

"I  am  if  you  want  me  to.  Judith,  how  long 
does  your  father  think  you  and  I  ought  to  wait?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  can  ask  him.  He  likes 
you  better -than  me.  He  always  wanted  me  to  be  a 


The  Wishing  Moon  333 

boy.     .     .     .     Neil,  I  want  to  tell  you  something. 
Keep  your  arm  like  that,  but  don't  look  at  me.'* 

"Why?" 

"It's  about  what  you  don't  like  me  to  talk 
about." 

"Everard?" 

"Yes,  and  it's  about  something  dreadful,  that 
day  in  his  library  when  I  was  alone  with  him,  and 
you  came.  He — frightened  me." 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  now." 

"He  frightened  me  but  that  was — all.  I 
wasn't  hurt  or  anything.  I  just  didn't  know  he — 
anybody — could  look  the  way  he  was  looking,  or 
act  the  way  he  was  acting,  and  then  I  felt  sick  all 
over.  I  was  afraid.  But  he  was  just  trying  to  kiss 
me,  of  course,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  let  him,  the 
horrid  old  man.  So  I  think  now  it  was  silly  to  be 
frightened.  Was  it?" 

"No,  it  wasn't  silly,  dear." 

"I'm  glad.  And  Neil — I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing else.  It's  about— that  night— in  the  buggy, 
on  the  old  road  to  Wells,  you  know,  when  you  were 
going  to  elope  with  me  and  changed  your  mind." 

"When  I  frightened  you  so.    Oh,  Judith." 

"You  didn't— frighten  me,"  said  a  very  small 
voice  indeed.  "You " 

"What,  dear?" 

"Made  me  want  you — want  to  go  away  with 


334  The  Wishing  Moon 

you.  I  never  felt  like  that  before,  all  waked  up 
and  different  and — happy.  Oh,  you  didn't  frighten 
me.  I  wasn't  angry  because  you  tried  to  take  me 
away.  It  was  because  you  brought  me  back." 

"Don't  you  know  why  I  brought  you  back?" 

"No." 

"Why,  because  I  loved  you.  I  didn't  love  you 
till  then,  not  really;  not  till  that  minute  in  the 
carriage.  I  know  just  what  minute.  When  you 
let  me  kiss  you,  and  didn't  mind  any  more.  Then 
I  knew  about — love.  I  never  knew  before,  but 
I'll  never  forget  again.  It  isn't  just  wanting  people, 
it's  taking  care  of  them,  and  not  hurting  them. 
Waiting  till  you  can  have  things — right.  So  I 
wanted  to  have  you  right  and  be  fit  for  you,  and 
after  that  night  I  went  to  work  and  I  wouldn't 
be  stopped,  not  by  anything  in  this  town  or  the 
world.  Oh,  Judith,  why  don't  you  speak  to 
me?  It  isn't  much  use  to  talk.  You  don't  under- 
stand." 

"I— do." 

"You're  crying!" 

She  was  crying,  and  she  did  understand.  Before 
this  unexpected,  beautiful  proof  of  it,  the  boy  was 
reverent  and  half  ashamed,  as  if  a  woman's  tears 
were  a  sacred  miracle  invented  for  him.  He  held 
her  hand  timidly  and  pressed  it.  Presently  she 
drew  it  away,  and  suddenly  she  was  not  crying, 


The  Wishing  Moon  335 

but  laughing,  a  low,  full-throated  laugh  as  wonder- 
ful to  him  as  her  tears. 

"I  told  you,  you  did  it  all,"  she  said  softly. 
"Well,  you  didn't.  Neil,  there's  what  did  it  all. 
Because,  if  you  only  go  on  believing  in  things  and 
being  sweet  and  true  and  not  afraid,  and — wishing, 
then  everything  will  come  right.  It's  got  to,  just 
because  you  want  it  to.  So  there's  what  did  it  all 
and  made  us  so  happy,  you  and  me.  I  love  it. 
Love  it,  Neil." 

Neil  looked  where  Judith  was  looking.  Above 
the  horse-chestnut  tree,  so  filmy  and  faint  that  the 
stars  looked  brighter  than  ever,  so  pale  that  it  was 
not  akin  to  the  stars,  but  to  the  dark  beyond,  where 
adventures  were,  so  friendly  and  sweet  that  it 
could  make  the  wish  in  your  heart  come  true,  hung 
a  new-risen  silvery  crescent  of  light. 

"But  it's  only  the  moon,"  Neil  said. 

"It's — the  wishing  moon,"  said  Judith. 


THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY   LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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